


The Hunted

by jkateel



Series: The Hunted [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Serious Injuries, Sexual Content, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 170,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/pseuds/jkateel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an island where people are hunted by the monstrous Dick Roman, Dean is on a desperate search for his missing brother when he meets a lost angel named Castiel. Together, they face off against predators and monsters alike on their hunt to find Sam and escape the island before it's too late.</p><p>Inspired by the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, this AU is set in a world where humans co-exist with angels, vampires, demons, werewolves, etc.; however, there are no supernatural/magical elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural © Eric Kripke
> 
> Each "monster" from Supernatural canon are _separate and distinct flesh-and-blood humanoid species_. Artistic license was taken with how each species looks and behaves, with various nods to Supernatural canon.
> 
> Please reference the tags for content warnings and possible triggers.

* * *

_The spirit gone, man is garbage._  
— Yossarian, Catch-22

* * *

_Promise me, Dean_ , Sam whispered in the back of his mind as Dean strained to reach the snare looped around his ankle. _Promise me._

Hanging upside down from a tree branch thirty feet in the air made reaching for said snare more than a little difficult, but Dean wasn't going to let that stop him. He hooked his hand around his aching, injured knee, and took several deep breaths before bending it down and heaving his torso up. The movement did nothing for his pounding head, a wave of dizziness making his vision swim in and out. But he pushed past it, blinking away the sweat and black spots in his eyes as he used his free hand to reach for the switchblade in his boot.

It took some wiggling to free the blade from where it was wedged in his boot. The knife part snapped open when he pressed the button on the side of the handle, and he tested it against the wire of the snare first.

No luck. It just wasn't strong enough to cut through steel. 

With a grunt, he moved onto option two, skimming the blade along the wire until he reached the metal clamp that held the snare loop together.

It wasn't easy to wedge the knife between the clamp and wire. The more he moved, the tighter the snare's hold seemed to get. The tree branch creaked ominously, too, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the slow twist of his blade.

His hand started to burn as he pushed against the handle. But the pain was worth it when he felt the clamp start to give.

"Come on, come on," he hissed through gritted teeth, more black spots filling his eyes. " _Come on_."

When the handle snapped clean off the blade without warning, it flew from his hand before he realized what had happened. It was long-gone by the time Dean tried to figure out where it had went, his stolen gun the only thing visible in the mud below. The knife itself was stuck in the clamp, impossible to move; he earned himself a nick on the finger when he tried. "No, _no_ ," he moaned, looking up the snare again. Frustration got the better of him, and he started clawing at the snare loop, trying to pry it off that way. "Come on!"

He _had_ to get out of this trap, he thought frantically, tugging on the wire again. After everything he gone through to get to this godforsaken island — after finding out Sam could be _alive_ — he was not getting trapped in a trap! He had to find Sam and get him off this island — this island Dick Roman brought the people he abducted to so he could hunt and murder them. And if that meant Dean was going to gnaw off his own leg to get free, he _would_ do it, dammit!

After he tried to hurl all his weight down to break the tree branch — and nearly blacked out when the the jolt of the wire went through his hurt knee — the solution came to him. The trap was simple in construction: Almost like a pulley system, the wire was attached to a large log on the ground, which was used as a weight to hold him in the air. With his own body used a counterweight, it kept the wire rigid and impossible to take off no matter how he pulled at it.

But if he could get rid of his weight and loosen the wire up, it would be malleable and easy to work off his ankle, Dean thought. There was only one way to do that however, and he let out a long breath before lifting up again.

It wasn't easy climbing the wire. It was thinner than a rope, and hard to grip with his sweaty, trembling hands. Equally hard was bending and lifting his knees to caterpillar his way up, his bad knee shooting spikes of pain up his body when he had to straighten out and bend again to pull himself higher. His abdomen protested too, lungs burning and heart pounding a mile a minute.

But the climbing paid off. By the time he heaved himself onto the branch, the wire had loosened against his ankle and blood was returning to his foot. He had enough energy left to slip the snare off before he sagged against the tree trunk, utterly exhausted.

Everything hurt. Blood and sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he fought off the urge to close his eyes and sleep — and that, along with his nausea and dizziness meant he was probably dealing with a concussion. (But given how hard he smacked his head on the ground when the snare had snatched him into the air, it was no surprise.) Thankfully, nothing seemed broken or sprained; it was only his injured knee that wasn't getting any better, now popping in a way he knew was bad. When he gingerly touched it through the tear in his jeans, it was feverish-warm and felt swollen — yet another bad sign.

Years of medical training told him he risked ruining his knee for good if he went back to walking and running around on it, but it was going to have to make do. Concussions, injured knees ... none of that mattered as long as Sam was on this island.

His brother had been here for six months, trapped with no hope of rescue, dealing with human-sized snare traps and God only knew what else. And on top of all that, there was Dick and his demons, hunting people — _hunting Sam_. His brother easily could have been snared in one of these traps too, fighting to escape as Dick drew closer, ready to add Sam's head to his trophy collection...

 _No._ Dean fought off a shudder at the thought of the _trophy collection_. No, Sam was _alive_. Dick had underestimated his brother if he thought Sam would be easy to hunt down and kill. Sam was _smart_. Sam was crafty. Sam had shit to fight for and a family to get home to. And when Dean found him, they were going to take down Dick Roman together, like they should have from the start.

And then Dean was taking his baby brother home, back to his family, even if it fucking _killed_ him.

First, however, was the issue of locating Sam, but Dean had put together a good guess the second he found out his brother could still be alive. He looked over to it then, the lightening sky revealing tree branches dusted with snow as well as his destination on the horizon.

The mountain.

Its snow-crowned peak towered over hills of rustic red, orange and golden forests shrouded in thick fog. It was on the far south side of the island — the furthest point from all things Dick. That made the mountain a place with the most tactical advantages. Dick and his demons hadn't said they had killed Sam, just let him go — and since Sam hadn't escaped off of the island, Dean knew he would have tried to find a place to lie low. The mountain itself was one giant hiding spot, and the forest and river below would provide food and shelter materials. That was what Dean would count on if he had been trapped here, and he knew Sam would too.

Dick was the only unpredictable factor in all this, but Dean knew if anyone could outsmart a psycho who murdered people for literal sport, it was his baby brother.

He scanned the rest of the horizon, curious. He hadn't been able to see the island from the mainland, and satellite images and maps only showed him so much. But what information he managed to pull seemed accurate. There, at the mountain's heart, the large river that Dean knew coursed through the center of the island was formed, flowing into the ocean to the northeast. To the southwest was a bay that Dean was using as a rendezvous point, near a meadow and lake that took up most of the west side of the island. It ended in another forest, and from his vantage point, Dean could see tree tops like spears blanketing the northwest of the island in snow-covered green. He could also see the coastline where the ocean churned a murky blue-gray, lashing against steep cliff sides and rocky beaches that bordered the entire island.

To the northeast, there was a small secondary island right off the coast. Though Dean couldn't see it through the trees, that was where Dick's lodge was. It looked like a fancy resort only seen in magazines, and included a harbor and dock that Dean had infiltrated to get to the island. That was also near various inconspicuous-looking buildings, one of which Dean now knew housed Dick's underground prison.

Its only exit, a large bunker door built into a rock face and hidden by foliage, led out to the main island. It had sealed shut tight after Dean stumbled through it, but he hadn't really cared about getting back in. He had trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the prison, but the moment he had slowed down to get his bearings was the moment when he had tripped the snare.

Dean looked back toward the mountain. Getting to it was going to take time, and a lot of it with his bad knee. The island was nearly twelve miles in length and twenty-six miles across, so he was looking at a full day of traveling. And that was all assuming they didn't find him first. He was going to have to just avoid Dick, and while staying ahead wasn't much of a plan, his 'escape onto the island' really hadn't been one either.

 _I'll just make it up as I go then,_ Dean thought as he pushed off the tree trunk.

Climbing down the tree was as much fun as climbing the wire, knee and head not really up for the task. But he made his way down without slipping or his knee giving out, only then to run out of branches, finding himself with solid trunk only. He was still a good ten feet off the ground, and Dean braced himself before sliding off the branch.

It wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, as far hitting the ground and falling right over into pine-needle strewn mud went. As his knee spasmed, he wheezed out a curse to keep himself from crying out in pain. Thankfully it faded quickly, but he still had to suck in several gulps of air before he could lift onto shaking arms.

He noticed his footprints and specks of blood on the ground, realizing that they were visible tracks and scents that could lead straight to him — something that he was going to have to worry about going forward. He would need to cover his tracks before he moved on too, and he made a mental note before looking around for his weapons.

His switchblade was a goner, but his stolen gun lay nearby. Dean prepared himself for the task of standing and retrieving it. He got to his knees, muttering under his breath, "On your feet, soldier, on your—"

It was then he saw the angel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a reminder, _there are no supernatural/magical elements in this story._ Each "monster" from Supernatural canon are all separate distinct flesh-and-blood humanoid species that co-exist with humans. (Kind of like dwarves, elves and humans in any fantasy and/or aliens and humans in sci-fi.) Artistic license was taken with how each species looks and behaves, with various nods to Supernatural canon.  
> 

Unlike every other species, there was no mistaking an angel for human at first glance. (Or several glances, and sometimes flat-out staring depending on how dark the bar was and how much Dean had drank.) Demons could pass for human until one noticed their distinct smell, their extra long canines, or the way their eyes flicked black. It was similar with vampires, but the fangs, pointed ears, and cat-like eyes quickly gave them away, if they didn't flaunt that they were a different species all on their own. Even werewolves were often mistaken for really tall humans, but big, pointed ears and spots on their fuzz-like fur were their markers — unless they hadn't had their shots, and had fully transformed. Then there was no questioning what a werewolf was.

But comparing _angels_ to the rest of them…

 _There is no comparison_ , Dean thought, lost in the blue eyes boring into his own. The sleek stance, the arch of wings over the shoulders, the otherworldly gaze that seemed to look straight through him — those were angelic hallmarks. They still gave Dean that awe-inspiring feeling too, the same one he had as a kid when he had been lucky enough to first meet the angels.

With unparalleled strength and agility, angels seemed to defy physics when they moved. They could streak through the air like missiles, and swoop and dive in ways that made fighter pilots jealous. Dean had seen a single angel, armed with only a sword, take down an entire platoon of soldiers and make it look effortless. That was how all angels were: fierce, absolute; as the joke went, the country of Jannah's "most terrifying weapon." No other species — vampire, werewolf, demon or human — would dare risk an angel's wrath.

Knowing that made it all the more painful when Dean took in the rest of the angel, and saw his fall from grace seared onto his body in blood and scars.

The angel was dangerously thin: stomach sunken in; ribs visible with each breath. His dirty overcoat swamped his frail from, and was littered with holes, tears, and blood stains. Past the remains of trousers torn at his scraped knees, one leg was mottled with bruises in every color. The other leg fared no better, Dean realizing the series of half-circle imprints on his calf were _teeth marks._

Those weren't the angel's worst scars however; those were the ones that tore across his chest. They were nasty, ugly things: three large, white ridged lines that marred tanned skin from shoulder to stomach. What could have caused them, Dean didn't know. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know.

It was too much either way. He had to look away, tasting bile when he swallowed.

From the moment he had stepped foot on the island, it had been one horrifying thing after another: Dick, demons, trophy collections, underground prisons that were actually torture chambers. But _this?_ Dean hadn't even known angels could be hurt — that anything was fast enough to touch one if they didn't welcome the contact. What the hell had happened to this angel?

Dean clenched his hands against his thighs, the sudden urge for a stiff drink overpowering.

Did Dick do this? he wondered, a chill going down his spine. Did he do _this_ to an angel _?_

When warm fingers pressed against his forehead and then slid into his hair, Dean looked back up in surprise. The angel tipped his head, gaze growing thoughtful. It was to that look Dean wanted to confess everything to: the anger, the agony, the pain and, oh God, the _fear. What is this place?_ he wanted to ask the angel. _Did he do this to you? Did he do this to my brother?_

But a movement in the angel's coat sleeve drew Dean's eye — that of a silver sword sliding into his hand. Dean frowned at it, and when the fingers tightened in his hair, he looked up again.

The angel's gaze had changed, pupils against cold blue slitted like a reptile's. Dean's breath caught in his throat, lost in those eyes again. Except there was nothing in them this time — nothing human anyway, and nothing angelic either. All Dean could see was a vast emptiness, an abyss that could and would swallow him whole.

Dean gazed into it and then, from the recesses of his mind and memory, he could hear Dick whisper to him.

_"There's no such thing as monsters, Dean."_

The rest of Dick's words were forgotten when the angel pressed his sword against his neck. That snapped Dean out of his haze, panic shooting through him.

The angel was going to kill him. _The angel was going to kill him._

Pure instinct fueled Dean's hard jab into the angel's abdomen. The angel hissed and recoiled, and Dean threw himself toward his gun lying close by. It was his only hope of protection, though the last thing Dean wanted to do was shoot and kill an angel. Why was the angel trying to kill him anyway?! Was he working for Dick too? But he couldn't be! An angel would _never_... unless he thought Dean was working for Dick, which was bad. Really, _really_ fucking bad.

Dean's fingers found the pistol, and he swung it around, hoping the angel would see it. If he could just explain—

The angel effortlessly kicked the gun out of his hand, his foot barely touching the ground before his other leg swung out. It hit Dean in the temple, sending the world into a wild spin as he crashed back to the ground.

Stunned, he lay there, vision going in and out again, hearing echoes of his father's voice. _Watch out for Sammy_ , his dad was saying. Dean could almost see the old man himself, yelling over the sounds of nearby gunfire and explosions. _Dean, take your brother and go!_

"N-No," Dean slurred at the approaching blur and glint of silver. He struggled back up, holding out a hand in a weak defense as he shook his head. "N-No. M'not one of them, Angel. M'not one of them. Look at my eyes, look at my teeth."

The angel didn't listen, grabbing him by the jaw and roughly shoving his head back. "No, _don't,_ " Dean hissed, trying to tug free, but the angel's grip was too strong. Panicking, he clawed at the angel's arm, pushing at the hand that held the sword to his neck. He couldn't die — he had to find Sam!

"No, no, I can help you, Angel," he babbled, not even really knowing what he was saying. "I can _save_ you."

The sword pressed into his neck and held there, blood trickling free. It seemed like an eternity of waiting for the inevitable before Dean heard the angel whisper.

"Save me?"

Dean's heart leaped. The angel's voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in years, and maybe he hadn't. Dean didn't really care at the moment. For some reason, he had told the angel he could save him, and that was something he could work with!

"Yes, yes," he croaked out breathlessly. "I can. I have a boat coming. I can get you off this island."

"Save me," the angel repeated slowly. Dean's vision cleared enough to see his cocked head, his pupils still slitted. "You can... save me."

Dean went to nod, but that was hard to do so within the angel's painful grip. "Yeah," he pressed, swallowing around his dry throat. "My friend, he knows I'm here. He's coming for me in three days."

The angel didn't have any reaction to that; in fact, Dean might as well have been speaking another language for how expressionless he was. But his fingers retreated slowly from Dean's jaw, and he pulled his sword away, taking a step back.

If anyone asked, Dean would have denied the shuddering gasp he let out, or the way he crab-crawled backwards, dragging his bad knee with him. Once he was at what instinctively felt like a safe distance away, he slapped a hand to his neck to make sure it was still in one piece. It was, but his heart wouldn't stop pounding, and he could feel his hands shaking.

 _One hit,_ he thought. Black spots were filling his eyes again, bile burning up his throat. One hit, and he had been down for the count. He had been trained in self-defense and weaponry since he was a kid; he had been a soldier for almost thirteen years; hell, he had killed three demons in his escape onto the island! But one hit, and he had almost _died_ , without even another chance to defend himself. And what if the angel _had_ killed him?

What would have happened to Sam?

Dean tensed when he heard the angel move. Half-blind as he was, there was no way he could see if the angel decided to attack him again. He blinked rapidly, hoping it'd clear his vision, and was eventually met with the sight of the angel standing in front of him. He was leaning forward slightly, head still cocked as he looked at him. It reminded Dean of a curious bird.

"You have… a boat," the angel said then.

"Yeah," Dean replied slowly.

The angel just stared at him, and Dean frowned, unsure of what to make of his lack of reaction. He got that the angel was confused, but if it weren't for his tipped head, Dean would have had no clue. It was weird — from what Dean remembered of angels, they had been nonchalant to everything going around them, but they hadn't looked like this one.

The angel's confusion itself was an unusual reaction too. Dean had been on rescue missions before, and most people had two reactions after they were found: relief or suspicion. The angel had neither, and the way he spoke… He wasn't asking actual questions. It was more like he was testing the words out, like he wasn't sure what they meant. Or, if he _was_ asking questions, he seemed to have forgotten vocal inflections. Dean didn't know what to make of it either way.

Weirdness aside, the angel no longer appeared hostile, so Dean went with it. If this was a rescue mission, how would he normally treat a situation like this? he asked himself.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he began, and paused. The angel had no change in expression, and Dean felt a brief flash of worry. "I'm have a boat coming to pick me up, in three days."

When the angel still failed to respond, Dean added, "Do you understand?"

The angel continued to look at him, and then murmured, "You have a boat."

Dean swallowed, stomach sinking. That wasn't the response he wanted, and he wasn't entirely sure how to reply. But then the obvious hit him — maybe the angel didn't speak English.

Shit. At best, his Enochian was laughable. And he wasn't sure there was even a word for 'boat' in the language. "Uhh, _zir dorphal_ Dean Winchester _,_ " he tried anyway, and, to his surprise, the angel reacted. His wings shuffled noisily against his back loudly as he leaned back up, head straightening out. It wasn't much of a response, but Dean was encouraged to go on. "Errm, _zirdo zacar nonca de_..."

As he tried to remember his next word, he found himself looking over the angel again. It was odd: How had Dick managed to snatch an angel up anyway? (And was _salman_ the word he wanted?) Dick had vampires and werewolves and the like abducted indiscriminately as far as Dean could figure, but taking an angel had to have been far from easy.

Most of the time, no one ever saw angels. The majority of them were in the country of Jannah and, as Dean understood it, that place was a mountainous region that was almost impossible to traverse on foot or vehicle. The only angels outside of Jannah were in the American host, and they lived in a valley in Southern California that was mostly off-limits to the public. Most angels never traveled outside of it, either.

Those that did, however, always had the paparazzi on them; in fact, that was how most people saw angels now: Magazines, newspapers, tabloids, those various "Angel Watch" TV shows (Dean was fond of the fashion one), as well as the occasional documentary. Some of angels were pretty well-known too: Gabriel, the comedian and actor; Anna, an infamous computer genius that was rumored to be a member of WikiLeaks; Balthazar, curator-turned-art-critic-turned-wine-expert (or whatever he was now). And the most famous of all, of course, was—

"Son of a bitch," Dean blurted, jaw dropping. "It's you. I _know_ you."

Dean could remember it all like it was _yesterday._ The headlines: _Mysterious Disappearance_ ; _Missing Angel;_ _No Leads; No Evidence Of Foul Play; New Searches Planned._ The nation gripped by the disappearance of its true American hero, with cable news shows discussing it for weeks on end, reporting any and all leads. There had been interview after interview with the angel's family; for a month straight, there had been weekly two-hour specials that went over every little clue. "What happened to the angel?" was all anyone had talked about wherever Dean went.

Dean had followed the story almost religiously: reading the papers, watching every news show and interview, throwing out theories to Sam… at least until his brother had looked up from whatever he had been working on to say, "Your angel fetish is showing, Dean."

But the story had died, too many months going by with no news, ransoms, or bodies. The world had moved on. Dean had forgotten too, and he was left wondering how long ago it had been. Six months? A year? Two years? Longer?

How _long_ had the angel been here?

"You know… me," the angel asked, in the same slow repetition. Dean almost barked out a laugh. It was such a silly question in hindsight — if the angel didn't look like death warmed over, Dean would have known him anywhere.

"You're _Castiel,_ " he said breathlessly, grinning ear-to-ear. The angel's eyes went wide. "You were one of the leaders of the fourth Avavago garrison in the American host. You won the Battle of Colt's Gate. You pretty much ended the Azazel Uprisings. You basically won the — whoa, Angel, _whoa_."

If seeing an angel scarred and bloody was bad, watching childhood heroes fall apart was far, far worse. Castiel swayed like Dean had gone for the stomach again, his sword falling from his hand. It was without thinking that Dean stumbled to his feet, his knee almost giving out on him as he went over to Castiel's side.

The angel was breathing hard, dingy dark gray wings trembling against his back as his chest heaved. He was having some sort of panic attack, Dean thought — and it was really _not_ comforting to know angels could even have panic attacks to begin with — but at least Dean knew what to do in these situations. Well, sort of: normally, he'd use a person's name to help calm them, but he wasn't sure how that'd go down. He had said Castiel's name and look what happened! (Were you even allowed to call angels by their name to their face? He couldn't remember.)

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it's okay," he soothed, holding out his hands in case the angel collapsed. "It's okay. Breathe, uh, Angel, _breathe_. You're okay; it's okay. Just breathe, just breathe."

Castiel didn't seem to hear him, even as his gaze jerked up to meet Dean's. His pupils had returned to normal, and this time Dean could read the panic in his eyes. "That's my name," he croaked out between pants. His voice was still gruff as all hell, but there was definite inflection now. "You know my name. How do you know my name?"

Now Dean was lost — _how did he did he know Castiel's name?_ Was that a trick question? "You're the hero of the Azazel Uprisings — _everyone_ knows who you are," he said. At Castiel's blank look, and after his initial panic of _that can't be good_ and _Do I have the right angel,_ Dean went for a different tactic. "You went missing. Everyone was looking for you. But no one knew you were _here_. No one knew this place even existed."

Castiel stared at him, like he didn't know what Dean was, let alone what he was saying. "But... you know?" he asked after a few wordless bobs of his mouth. His brow furrowed, and he seemed to be struggling with his words as he asked, "You weren't... Released?"

 _Released like animals_ , Dean thought. One of the demons had said that to him. But he understood Castiel's confusion. "No, I came here. I snuck onto the island," he explained. Castiel's brow furrowed more, so Dean added, "I'm looking for my brother. He's here, somewhere. I'm trying to find him."

The angel glanced away. He seemed to processing that, his eyes flickering from side-to-side in clear thought. Dean's heart started to pound then. There were so many ways the angel could respond, but Dean hoped for only _one_ response…

The angel looked back at him and murmured, "Your brother?"

Dean's heart sank; he had hoped for more. "Yeah, my brother, Sam," he managed, then faltered as his throat tightened. He suddenly feared to ask the obvious follow-up question: _have you seen him?_ Would Castiel even say if he had? And how did he reply to the angel now?

Surprisingly, the words slipped out of Dean's mouth before he even really thought them over.

"He was taken. He was taken because he found out about this island."

As the angel stared at him, Dean clenched his hands into fists at his side.

 _And I knew he was going to be taken too,_ he thought darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's terrible Enochian literally translates to, "I am Dean Winchester. I move you to..."


	3. Chapter 3

_My brother was taken_.

It felt good to say that out loud, Dean thought. It felt good to say it without immediately being met with skepticism, too. Where he wasn't then asked uncomfortable-to-think-about questions like _has Sam had any change in behavior_ ; _any troubles in his marriage; any reason he'd leave_. Where Jess didn't start to look pale, before she ended up admitting that Sam had been distant and distracted lately because of work. Where words like _Flagstaff_ and _Stanford_ weren't thrown back into Dean's face to question his brother's character. Where his word didn't have any weight — _his_ word about _his_ brother he had pretty much raised since he was in diapers! — when he said, "Sam would _never_ leave his wife and children."

The feeling was short-lived, however. There was only so much comfort Dean could take in having been right, especially after learning his brother's fate. And it wasn't like he deserved comfort anyway, not when he had known something was wrong the moment Sam had turned to him and said, _"Promise me."_

In the end, Dean was left feeling nauseated as he looked at Castiel, a living example of what might have become of his brother. The feeling only grew worse for far different reasons when the angel asked, "Your brother found out about this island?"

The angel's scars, wounds, and panic attacks were too goddamn much on their own; Dean didn't know what to do with the utterly lost look that Castiel gave him. Part of him just wanted to sit the angel down and keep encouraging him to relax and take deep breaths; another part kept reminding him that this was an _angel._ And not just any angel — this was _Castiel,_ a living legend that Dean knew everything about.

He was already considered one of history's great military strategists, up there with Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Napoleon. His war record was filled with victory after victory: Samhein's Peak; the Union, Kentucky siege; the assault at Stull Cemetery, and the most famous of all, the Battle of Colt's Gate. With a strategic offensive the demons never saw coming, Castiel had ended the Azazel Uprisings, an eight-year-long war, in less than six months.

For Dean, however, Castiel was more than just the nation's hero. He _knew_ Castiel. He had met him during Colt's Gate. It was the one crystal-clear memory of a battle that was otherwise one long blur: the endless bombings; running out of medical supplies and rations; demons breaking the lines and swarming the base; taking Sam's hand and running for their lives. But there was also the moment in the forest, with gunfire in the distance and Sammy clinging to his side, when Dean had looked up into the blue eyes of an angel and known one thing: _They were saved._

But the memory of his hero — of kind eyes and great black wings, a warm smile and a promise that everything would be okay now — clashed with reality. Dean's stomach twisted, the things he had always wanted to say to him dying on his tongue. _We met when I was thirteen, do you remember? You saved my brother. You saved me._

"Y-Yeah," he found himself saying instead. _Sam_ , he thought. It was easier to think about Sam and what happened to him. Besides, talking was good too. _Reassure and establish communication_ — that had been drilled into him as much as his dad's _stay focused and assess the situation_. It could help with the angel's confusion, and maybe even calm him down too.

Dean hoped it would anyway.

"My brother… he was looking into the people that disappeared. He realized that they were being abducted," Dean explained, Castiel's eyes following his hands when he gestured with them without thinking. His expressionless face returned, but Dean sensed he had the angel's full attention when blue eyes met his again.

It was a start, but it wasn't particularly easy for Dean to take everything he knew and shave it down to the bare bones. Leading with _My brother is an assistant district attorney with the city of New York_ , seemed too much in the detail department, so he had skipped that, but the rest? The international humanoid trafficking ring Dick ran through a series of fake companies? That creepy-ass town he shipped cargo containers of abducted people to, before he had them moved out to the island off its coast? No, probably best to keep it simple. "I think Sam found a common link between the abductions, and found out they were being brought here. I don't think he knew what was happening to them, but—"

Dean faltered then. What if Sam _had_ known? he wondered. His brother had built his case against Dick for almost two years, so there was no telling how much he had figured out. Dean had only fragments of Sam's research and his own memories to go on, and had worked from there. Sam at least knew what Dick was capable of from the onset, but he had suspected the hunting people part — the hunting _angels_ part — and still hadn’t said anything...

 _Promise me,_ Sam whispered in the back of his mind, and Dean felt his anger spark even as his stomach sank. "Sam was taken because of what he found out," he growled, fist clenching at his side. "By the man that runs this place: Dick Roman."

He practically spat out the name, but his anger turned to surprise when Castiel let out a sudden sound. Dean looked back at him, watching in wonder as the angel's pupils slitted again, the feathers on his wings bristling. "The monster," he hissed through bared teeth.

Dean frowned.

_Monster?_

"Is that… Is that what you call him?" he asked, curious. Castiel's eyes flicked over him twice before he gave the tiniest of the nods. Dean almost laughed out loud at the coincidence.

He had called Dick the exact same thing, and what had the asshole replied with? _There was no such thing as monsters?_ Well, now Dean knew an _angel_ that agreed with him, and not just any angel! Castiel! That was like a double endorsement, so Dick could _suck_ it—

The laugh never left his lips, cheer dying as quickly as it had arrived. He looked at Castiel again, this time really taking in his too-wide eyes and too-tense body. He was breathing rapidly again, and it looked like any sound might send him into the air. He was _afraid_ , Dean realized, chills going down his spine. The Hero of the Azazel Uprisings, who had faced down the armies of Azazel and Lilith, was _afraid._

It was such a stupid thought to have, especially when Castiel had already had a panic attack on him. Yet, like the angel's scars and wounds, it was a sharp reminder of who exactly Dean was dealing with. Dick was no longer just the man who ran a trafficking ring, owned a secret island, and had made Sam's disappearance look like his brother had run away. Dick was also a man who had abducted the single most famous angel in the world next to their god, Michael, without anyone figuring out how, and then left that angel scarred and _scared_ of him. Dean hadn't even known angels could  _feel_ fear.

Dean had to look away from Castiel again, stomach twisting violently. It was ironic — only a few hours ago, he had been absolutely convinced he knew everything there was to know about Dick. Now that thought almost made him want to laugh out loud again, but for entirely different reasons this time. The joke was on him, wasn't it? Maybe there was no such things as monsters, but there was such a thing as Dick Roman. And he was far scarier.

Castiel suddenly shifted on his feet, head darting to one side. Dean jumped at the movement despite himself, but he also followed his gaze without thinking. There was nothing but fog and trees around them, but out in the distance, he could _hear_ something. It was indistinct and faint, trailing off as quickly as it started. Still, Dean recognized the sounds of shouting, and immediately noticed what direction it had come from.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed. It had came from Dick's underground prison. Someone had found the demons he had killed then. They had to know he had escaped. Would they come after him? Dean's mind raced, panic making his stomach twist around and around. What if they found him before he could get to Sam and then out to the extraction point? He couldn't let that happen. He had to get Sam _off_ this island. But what if he couldn't? What if—

No. Dean stopped that train of thought, and took a deep breath. He had to keep calm. He had to assess the situation. He had come to this island for a reason: to find definitive, indisputable proof that Dick Roman was the one behind hundreds of abductions. He had to get that proof to the proper authorities so they could _stop_ Dick, and prevent more people from being taken. His original plan to get that information out had failed miserably, but that was why he had made up back-up plans. And, like any good soldier or medic, he knew how to make use of his resources he had to get the job done.

What did he have? Bobby coming in a boat to pick him up. And what else did he have?

Dean looked back at Castiel, the angel meeting his gaze and then tilting his head curiously.

He had an angel, and not just any angel: The hero of the Azazel Uprisings, the missing angel, _Castiel._

Whatever Dean could have found was _nothing_ compared to the irrefutable proof that Castiel was. People would revolt if Dick's head wasn't on a pike for what he had done to him, and that wasn't even taking into account the angel's kin, the hosts of America and Jannah. They probably wouldn't care about authorities or due process — they would rain down their wrath on this whole fucking island, and there was no way Dick or his demons could escape _that_.

It was strategic too: if Dean couldn't get to Sam in time for extraction, they could just lie low until rescue came. And, if Dean got killed before then, rescue would still come. Sam would still get home, and so would Castiel — and what more could Dean ask for? He had told Castiel he could save him, right? For once, that was a promise he could keep, and it was one he _had_ to keep, too. A long time ago, Castiel had saved him and his brother. It was time to return the favor.

"Angel," he said breathlessly, taking a step toward him. Castiel tensed again, but it seemed more out of surprise than reacting to a threat. "You gotta' get to my boat. It's coming in—" Dean had to checked his watch to make sure. "In three days, right after sunset. It'll pull into the bay on the southwest side of the island. The bay's a half-moon shape, with several rocky outcroppings in the water. Do you know where I'm talking about?"

It took a long moment for Castiel to answer, and Dean felt another flash of worry that faded when the angel finally gave another small nod. "Awesome. Now, my friend, Bobby Singer, he's the one coming. He wears a trucker hat and says 'balls' a lot, you can't miss him. You tell him Dean Winchester sent you, alright? Tell him that getting you off this island is the prime directive, with or without me. Got it?"

Instead of replying, Castiel stared at him like he had grown a second head. Dean felt his worry from before returning again. _What if this plan goes south,_ a dark part of him thought, _because of him? Because he might not be all_ —

Castiel gave the shortest bob of his head then, enough that Dean could breathe another sigh of relief. He could trust Castiel with this, he reassured himself. He really had no choice, but, aside from his confusion, Castiel hadn't given him any reason to believe he couldn't. He wanted to know how Dean could save him, right? He had to know this was how Dean was doing it. And there wasn't anything to say Dean wouldn't make it in time for extraction — he had three days to get Sam to that boat, after all. He had time; now he just had to find his brother...

Dean hesitated then, looking back to Castiel. Despite his renewed optimism, it wasn't any easier to ask what he needed to ask. "You, uhh… You haven't seen him, have you?" he asked, making gestures with his hands as he described his brother. "Sam's around six-six, brown hair, hazel eyes, last seen wearing a suit? I think he's been here around six months?"

Castiel's eyes had followed Dean's hands, and then fell back to him. Like before, Dean baited his breath as he waited for him to reply, his heart sinking once again when the angel shook his head.

Dean winced, but pushed his worry aside. No news was good news, right? He was going to stick with that. Sam had to be alive — he _had_ to be. And Dean was getting him home.

They both looked over when they heard another far-off yell. It didn't sound like it was getting any closer, but Dean didn't want to stick around to find out. "Alright, you'd better go," he told Castiel, but the angel didn't move, his lost expression back when he turned to him. Dean felt another uncomfortable twinge, and he forced a quick smile. "Go, Angel. Get to the bay. Wait for Bobby. Right after sunset on the third day, remember."

It took Castiel a moment, but something seemed to click, as he began to back up slowly. He paused to retrieve his sword from the ground, and then looked at Dean again, several emotions in his eyes that Dean couldn't name. But before he could decipher any of them, the angel was gone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.

Dean let out a breath after he was gone. The past twenty-four hours flashed back in his mind — sneaking onto the island, finding out Sam might be alive, escaping Dick's prison, running into Castiel — and Dean's head hurt just thinking about it. His knee joined in with the pain, throbbing in tandem, but it was manageable. When he looked out at the forest, he felt hope for the first time in six months — and that was worth any injury.

"I'm coming, Sammy," he promised, and set off.


	4. Chapter 4

When Dean had first learned about the island, it was nothing more than a pinned point on a map Sam had on his office wall. That was one part of a space filled with newspaper clippings, several shipping manifestos, random missing person reports, and a half-dozen note cards with company names scribbled on them. Dean hadn't been able make heads-or-tails of any of it — how was an island off the coast of Alaska connected to Russian vampire nest disappearances, and a company called SparkCo Natural Resources anyway? — and he didn't have a chance to snoop and figure it out either. Sam had returned to his office then, sounding like a squeaky 13-year-old again when he snapped, "This is _private,_ Dean!" before shoving him out the door.

That memory resurfaced not long after Dean had realized it was Dick Roman who'd taken Sam. With nothing else to go on — all of Sam's notes, maps and research Dean knew existed (he had seen them!) had disappeared just like his brother — he had started digging into it. If some random island held clues, he had been determined to track them down.

Little did he know how deep that rabbit hole went.

Dean had never imagined being _on_ the island, however. Knowing its history and memorizing maps of it certainly hadn't prepared him for the rough terrain, the heavy vegetation, or the biting cold. Its forests were old, filled with cedar and pine trees that were as tall as they were thick. Ferns, bushes, moss, snow, and rocks covered every surface tree roots didn't. If there had been any trails to follow, they were now lost; any landmarks were covered in a fog so thick that Dean could barely see more than twenty feet in front of him at times.

It was eerily quiet too, something he noticed whenever he paused to rest his knee, or checked his watch's compass for due south toward the mountain. Even the crunch of snow and pine needles under his feet was lost in the overwhelming silence. If it wasn't for the sound of his own ragged breathing, Dean would have thought he had gone deaf.

It was unsettling, a feeling that wasn't really welcome when he was already nervous about setting off another trap, or running into Dick or his demons. He wondered if it was just him, or if this was how Sam, and even Castiel, had felt about the island too. Not that Dean could really imagine what they, or any of the abducted people, had gone through.

Being snatched from family and home, stuffed into a cargo crate, shipped halfway across the world, locked away in a prison run by _demons_ — that was a nightmare Dean never wanted to have.

But for people to then be let go onto this island… It must have been like entering another world. It had that kind of feel to it all on its own, and maybe it was. _A psychopath's world,_ Dean thought sarcastically as he limped up a hill.

 _How_ that world worked though, he was still trying to figure out.

Dick ran a global empire of Fortune 500 companies, so Dean figured he wasn't at the island all that often to indulge in his serial killer ways. People were still brought here even when he wasn't around however (based off everything he knew, Dean figured they came in every few months), but then what? They were kept in the prison the demons had called the "holding facility" for some time but, as one of the demons had told him, they were released eventually. If Dick was absent, and if Castiel was any indication, would they just _live_ on the island?

 _No,_ Dean realized. _A lot_ of people would have died long before Dick got around to hunting them. Starvation, dehydration, exposure, injuries, and illness were very real killers, and for anyone who didn't have a lick of survival skills, they probably didn't have much of a chance. Still, it didn't make sense. While Dean really didn't want to question the logic of a mass murderer, why did Dick go through all the trouble of abducting people to hunt if he was just going to let most of them die anyway?

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered under his breath then, pausing in his tracks. _That was the point, wasn't it?_ Dick had told him that he only hunted the best, that he wanted the challenge that came from it. Dean had seen what remained of the victims, and that had been at least three hundred people. Those had to be the ones that were strong enough to survive on the island… but out of those three hundred, how many _hadn't_ survived?

That thought made his stomach drop, the implications of it almost _too much_. And with that thought came other awful ones.

Had Sammy been one of those three hundred? Or had he been one of those who weren't strong enough…?

 _No, no._ Dean shook his head, shoving those thoughts away. _Sam is alive_ , he berated himself as he started walking again, angry at his own doubt and fears. Sam was alive, and his brother was the one who had effectively put a stop to this place. Who knew how many more people would have lived and died here if Sam hadn't learned about this place. And there was something Dean couldn't wrap his mind around! How had no one had figured out what was happening here besides his brother?

He understood not connecting random disappearances with a trafficking ring, but by the time they got to the little town off the island's coast? Why had no one there had never reported anything suspicious, like how demons were the ones picking up shipments and then taking them out to an island that was supposedly uninhabited? Not that every town didn't have their resident pack of demons, but when they were doing something out of the norm, you were _supposed_ to report them. (And right then Dean could almost hear Sam bitching, “Daemons, Dean, daay-muns. At least try to be politically correct? This is why they don’t like us.” Well, they weren't exactly giving Dean anything to like, were they?)

That thought brought up something else Dean couldn't figure out: If people lived on this island, how come no one had ever escaped? He had already came up with at least one way that it could be done, simply by going out the same way he had come in. The demons docked their boat on in a small harbor of the secondary island right off the coast, and since they regularly went to the mainland to pick up supplies or shipments, Dean would have taken advantage of that just like he had when he had came to the island.

All someone had to do was sneak onto the other island, and hide on that boat… Unless the demons expected that, and checked for it.

Dean grunted in annoyance. Okay, so maybe there were holes in that plan, but there had to be a way off the island somehow: smoke signals, message in a bottle, building a canoe, _something_. And what about Castiel? How come he hadn't escaped? If he couldn't slaughter his way to the boat, couldn't the angel have just flown away?

Unless the demons expected that too, and that was a chilling thought.

 _What if there is no way_ to _escape?_ Dean wondered then, remembering how Castiel had reacted to what he had said.

 _I can save you,_ Dean had told him.

Those must have been words the angel had wanted to hear for more than two years.

That was an awful thought, even worse than seeing Castiel bruised and battered. And it just escalated from there.

How many people had lived here? Dean wondered, the chill going down his spine only growing colder. How many people had _died_ here? There was no way of really knowing, but the sheer scope and size of Dick's operation was ballooning to epic proportions the more information he gathered. Hundreds of people? Dick had owned this island since the '80s, though. _Thousands_ of people?

And for those that there were strong enough to survive, it would have had to be hell. A constant struggle to find food, water, and shelter, all before they had to avoid the guy shooting at them. If they had no hope of escape…

Dean cursed again, running a hand down his face and then shaking his head again. All those people... At some point, they must have realized there was no escape, no hope of rescue. And _that_ feeling, that utterly helpless, hopeless feeling — Dean knew what it was like: remembered it from Colt's Gate; when Sam had disappeared. No deserved that feeling, not his brother, and certainly not a hero like Castiel. It was just as deadly as a murderer with a gun, but Dean wasn't sure which was a worse death.

Well, as long as they didn't know what Dick did with their bodies. Dean couldn't think of anything that was gut-wrenching and demoralizing — and he didn't want to think about it either if he could help it. Not if he wanted to remain hopeful himself.

There was some things best left to his nightmares anyway, and this island was promising to give him plenty of those already.

* * *

Hours passed. The fog faded enough to reveal gray sky, the sun a dull, white circle behind the cloud cover. The ground grew steadily steeper the further Dean went, and it began to take its toll after a while. His knee _ached,_ and blisters were forming on feet no longer used to marching on patrols. He was soaked in sweat too, a cold wind from the north making him shiver violently whenever it caught on his damp clothing. His mouth had gone dry about an hour in, he had a pounding headache, and his stomach grumbled away, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since that mooseburger a day before.

Still, there were some positives. For one, he hadn't seen hair or hide of Dick and his demons. He was making good time too, even with his bad knee, and he had started to remember stuff Bobby had taught Sam and him when they were kids. Bobby had wanted them to know how to hunt, fish and set up camp, but also be able to figure out who lived where in any given place. "That way, you won't accidentally walk right into a vampire nest or werewolf den," he had joked at the time, though the chances of that were pretty slim even back then — most werewolves or vampires lived in houses of their own now, unlike when Bobby was a kid.

On the island, however, Dean wondered if people would fall back on their old ways to help them survive. For once, all that stuff Bobby had taught him would come in handy.

He went over what he knew: Werewolves — who had never really lost their instincts despite their shots — were territorial, and transformed or not, they would leave claw marks on some sort of surface to show what was theirs. In a forest like this, that would be trees, somewhere near an open field or a water source. They often lived within range of humans or vampires, which, as long as the werewolves stayed away from the nest, the vampires never seemed to mind.

That wasn't the case with humans. While humans and vampires more or less got along nowadays, a human going into a vampire's territory was just pushing their luck. Dean kind of couldn't blame the vamps — back in the day, any human in their territory was either there on accident, or was a Hunter (and it was usually the latter more than the former). Still, the Hunter program had died out more than fifty years ago, and humans had been doing their best to make up for their past mistakes since then. Dean wished the vampires would let bygones be bygones.

 _That_ was a long time coming, and until then it was just best to avoid vampires if you could help it. On this island however, it would actually be good to break that rule, if there were vampires here. Dean wasn't sure where a nest would be exactly, but vampires would want somewhere dark, downwind, and out-of-sight. Possibly a cave, or maybe a dense thicket of trees, near wherever a werewolf lived if there were any on the island. Dean would know when he found it either way, when he got close enough and caught a whiff of that metallic scent that all vampires had. It smelled like blood, which was no surprise when that was what they ate.

Dean kept those clues in mind as he hiked along. He didn't know if there were other people on the island — in hindsight, he probably should have asked Castiel (but, to be fair, he _did_ have other things on his mind) — and when his priority was finding Sam, he wasn't going to actively seek them out. If he saw signs of them however, he wanted to make a mental note for later search-and-rescue teams. What Bobby had taught him wasn't common knowledge anymore, and Dean knew the process would go faster if he could provide rescuers with that info.

Not that he was seeing any evidence of other people, but Dean wasn't surprised about that since he was in an open forest. (Someone as big as a werewolf or vampire wouldn't be able to hide well in a forest.) But as he went further along however, the lack of signs began to bother him, though he wasn't sure why at first. He wasn't like he was expecting to see anyone or anything, and he _wasn't._

So why did that feel so wrong?

He was focused so hard on figuring out what was missing that the sound of trickling water caught him by surprise. It was the first noise he had heard in hours, and all he could do was stare in the direction it was coming from before the sound properly registered in his brain.

 _Water_ , his mind bellowed then, and Dean forgot everything else as he followed the sound to its source, hobbling through a thicket of leafless trees and over a half-frozen log. His mouth seemed to grow dryer and dryer with every step he took, and it was positively raw by the time he found the small pool. His feet sank in the mud and dead leaves circling the pond, making him stumble a bit as he made his way to the water.

Dean couldn't bend his knee well, so he got as close as he could to the stream that fed the small pond. He cupped his hands under it, hissing at the cold; it was a small discomfort however, when the water pooled in his hands looked as inviting as a bottle of brandy. He was probably going to drink as much of it too. "Please don't make me sick," he pleaded to the water, before bringing his hands to his lips.

It was the best damn water he ever had, Dean drinking until his sides ached along with his knee. _Totally worth it,_ he decided when it helped ease his headache, his body relaxing in a way it hadn't since he stepped foot on the island. It made him want to sit down for a bit and rest, his feet sliding in the mud again as he went to sit on a nearby rock.

It was oddly relaxing. Quiet. Dean felt his eyes grow heavy; he didn't even realized he closed them until his watch suddenly beeped. Blinking rapidly, he looked down at it.

Twelve-fifteen p.m.

It would be the twin's lunchtime, he thought. Joan would want PB & J with the crusts cut off; Mary had a thing for bologna Dean didn't understand. If they were doing the twin-mind-meld thing, they'd both want SpaghettiOs. (Something that always made Sam, if he was working from home, gag whenever he smelled it.)

Dean felt his heart pang sadly. God, he missed them... Though Sam probably missed them more.

His thoughts grew dark then. Sam should have _never_ been taken from them in the first place.

With a curse, he pushed off his rock. Right, enough downtime. He looked around him, thinking. He needed to cover up his tracks so it wasn't obvious he had stopped here. First thing were the footprints. He needed to get rid of those...

He hadn't even managed a step when it hit him why the lack of signs in the forest were so wrong.

 _Footprints_.

There were no footprints.

It was more that that, too. Dean did a quick survey of the trees and foliage around him, which confirmed his suspicions: There were no broken tree branches, half-eaten shrubs, dug-up roots, burrows, droppings, paw prints… Nothing that would be typical in a forest like this. He hadn't been seeing anything like it at all, and he wasn't seeing anything _here_ , at a watering hole that would have the sure-fire place to find all those things.

Dean's eyes slowly lifted back up to the forest as he was confronted with a very disturbing thought.

Where were all the animals?

There _had_ to be some: Rabbits, foxes, raccoons, beavers, squirrels, lizards, frogs, birds, _something._ Dean hadn't been hunting in years, but he didn't think he was _that_ out of practice to miss the obvious signs. Except he wasn't seeing any, and now that he thought about it, he hadn't _heard_ any animals either — not a chirp, chitter or ribbet, or the sounds of something running or flying for cover. But that was impossible: While he didn't know if the island was large enough to support bigger animals, there _had_ to be the smaller ones. Even Dick and the demons had said there were animals on the island, so where were they?

Dean tensed then. They had said there were animals, but had they meant _animal_ animals or...

He felt another chill go down his spine. And, as much as he didn't want to, he found himself thinking back to early that morning, to when he had first arrived. Right when he snuck off the boat, avoiding the demons (though he hadn't known that was what they were at the time) unloading supplies as he had made his way up the docks to the lodge that he had known belonged to Dick Roman...

* * *

  **Seven Hours Ago**

* * *

It had been so easy to infiltrate the island; even easier to get into the lodge. With Dick's men busy unloading supplies, talking and chattering to each other, Dean moved unnoticed. He passed several buildings that on a first glance through their windows seemed to contain barrack style furnishings — where Dick's men lived maybe? The lodge was right after that, the back door left wide open to receive the shipments, no one guarding the entrance. Dean slipped right in without a sound, making his way past a kitchen, where a chef was working with a large slab of meat and what smelled like garlic sauce, and then into the main part of the lodge. He slid his gun out from the back of his waistband, holding it loosely in his hand as he began his search.

The lodge was massive, Dean passing a lounge, the dining room, a ballroom. Up a set of stairs were the bedrooms, and he carefully opened each door to peer inside. They were mostly empty, large beds set up so they faced the view of the ocean or island through bay windows. None contained Dick or a computer he could hack into, however, so Dean moved on.

He checked a few more rooms before he came to set of double doors that opened up to a large office. There was nothing much to it at first glance: bay windows looking out at the island; a large mahogany desk perpendicular to a wall with a television on it; sofa chairs facing a fireplace where embers glowed red. The computer monitor on the desk drew Dean's attention though, and he closed the door quietly behind him. 

 _Perfect,_ he thought.All he had to do was turn on the computer, upload the hacking program Frank had given him, and search the private files for any information on what Dick was doing here. There _had_ to be something on there that would put Dick away for good, and _maybe_ would reveal what happened to Sam, too...

As he headed over to the desk, the odd shapes behind the gleam of the glass shelves caught his eye. Curious, he retrieved a small flashlight from his jacket, clicking it on and lifting it up.

What he saw would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Body horror.

* * *

  **Seven Hours Ago**

* * *

"Look at them all," Bobby had murmured the first time Dean had showed him all the missing persons reports he had gathered, some from memory, some that fit the same pattern of disappearances as the others. It was what had convinced Bobby that Dean was on to something — and that he had been right about Sam's disappearance, too. The reports had filled an entire wall, Bobby's mouth hanging open as his eyes traveled from face-to-face. Then, he had asked a question Dean had no answer to.

"What's he even doin' with them?"

If Dean was honest, he hadn't thought much about the other victims. Not beyond names, and faces; certainly not of their families, or their fates. It wasn't that he didn't care — he just _couldn't_ ; if he did, he knew he would just see Sam in every one of them, and he'd fall apart. All Dean could do for them, for their families, was to finish what his brother had started. Stopping Dick Roman meant stopping the abductions, and preventing anyone else from suffering the same fate. _Afterward_ , Dean had thought. He would think about them afterward, after he figured out what happened to Sam.

Standing in Dick's den, however, Dean was thinking about all those people.

He had no choice when he was looking at what was left of them.

There was a fully transformed werewolf pelt rug on the floor next to the fire, its mouth agape in a fearsome roar that didn't reach its dead eyes. It wasn't the only werewolf in the room, let alone the only person, the room filled with the heads of almost two dozen vampire and werewolf heads mounted on plaques. Their mouths were open, the needle-like teeth of the vampires on full display, manes of hair flared out like a lion's. They decorated the wall above the fireplace mantle, and over a cabinet filled with several rifles — every free space that wasn't the far back wall.

That was where two large glass cabinets were both taking up the entire length of the wall. Inside, on shelf after shelf, were white skulls,  _hundreds_  of them. They came in every species (and there were even some Dean didn't recognize), their skeletal grins almost manic.

The eyes the were the worst part though. They all seemed to be looking at him — the glassy ones of the vampires and the werewolves; the empty sockets of the skulls — looking _through_ him, mouths immobile as they whispered faintly in Sam's voice, _Promise me, Dean._

Bile burned up his throat, his vision blurring out. _What had Dick done to these people?_ he thought frantically. _What had he done to Sam?_

"Susan, I was unaware we had a morning meeting with the eldest Winchester. Did he have an appointment scheduled?"

Dean's body moved without thinking, his gun on the person before they even finished speaking. When he realized who it was, however, his breath caught in his throat, mind screeching to a halt. The man before him didn't even glance at the weapon pointed at him, merely revealed too-white teeth in a grin when the woman next to him gave a negative in reply. Dean didn't hear whatever else she said, heart pounding too loudly in his ears.

There he was: _Richard "Dick" Roman_. One of the most powerful men in the world, with a global empire that was a leader in weapons, technology and agriculture. Dean had learned everything he could about the man: watched his motivational speeches, gone over every article on his Fortune 500 companies, read his speeches for the NRA. The media was always speculating that he would run for president, even though whenever asked, the man simply promoted his best-selling book (which Dean had also read).

Despite Dick's reputation, there were still many strange rumors and conspiracy theories surrounding him. It took some digging to find, a lot of it was fringe stuff, like that video that tried to prove Dick was a lizard person seeking world domination. (And for some reason was titled _The Rise of Dick_ ). The other stuff, though — links to organized crime; war profiteering; those shell companies that shipped unlabeled cargo to unknown destinations — that had helped Dean understand why Sam had been looking into him.

It was almost surreal to see Dick in the flesh, however, even after he haunted Dean's days and nightmares for so long. Though he had replaced his suit-and-tie getup for a simple sweater, ascot and gray trousers, Dick still had the same grin, the same dark glint to his eyes. His nostrils flared then, grin showing off more teeth until it reminded Dean of a shark's. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to flee, as if that grin would suddenly reveal sharp teeth that could rip him apart.

"Well, it's as I always say, Susan," Dick drawled, eyes never leaving Dean's. "There are three things that make a successful company: honesty, integrity, and spontaneity. Let's find out what Mr. Winchester has to propose in the latter, shall we?"

He gestured to the sofa chairs in front of the fireplace. "Dean, correct? Have a seat."

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of Dean's eye, and he swiftly turned to meet it. That was a mistake, the person simply sidestepping and snatching his wrist and gun with their hands. Both were twisted violently to the side, Dean's cry of pain cut off when the person slammed their foot right into his knee. Fire streaked up and down his leg, agony blinding him as he was grabbed and shoved against a wall.

His gun was seized from his limp grim, hands rapidly patting down his body. Dean's vision cleared enough that he caught a glimpse of black eyes and long, pointed canines over his shoulder. The person shoved Dean harder against the surface when his knee suddenly gave out, yelling at him, "Keep your hands on the wall, meatbag!"

 _Demons,_ Dean realized, blood running cold. Several of them if all the movement in his peripheral vision was correct. They stripped him of his knives, lock-picking kit, disposable cell, and the USBs he had brought to use to hack into Dick's computers. Dean had a half-second to realize they missed the switchblade in his boot, before he was declared clean, and dragged off the wall. Dean could barely put any weight on his leg, knee screaming in pain when they tossed him into the chair.

Through blurry eyes, he could see the demons in the room, six of them in total. They were in identical black uniforms, two keeping their handguns on him; another two standing behind his chair to pin him with hands on his shoulders. Another turned on the lights before she moved over to work on the fireplace, while the other carefully bagged Dean's things.

"Susan, field Mr. Winchester's calls for him, would you?" Dick said as he had walked into Dean's line of sight, moving toward a small table underneath the television on the wall. "Get their information, and assure them that we'll get right back to them."

"Yes sir," the woman in question said with a dark smirk, taking Dean's things before she left the room. Dean swallowed, knowing Bobby wouldn't call him — the phone had been to contact the police if he found any incriminating evidence, or got into trouble. With his phone went his weapons, however, which would only make it more difficult to fight his way out. It would help if the demons weren't armed, and if he wasn't injured, too...

All plans of escape halted when Dean accidentally glanced over at the skulls again. He felt his first trickle of fear, and had to look away as his thoughts betrayed him.

_What if he couldn't escape?_

"Drink, Dean?" Dick asked from his small table, Dean looking over and seeing the glasses of alcohol he had poured. When Dick saw his incredulous look, the man smirked. "Now Dean, one has to be civil with their guests, even the uninvited ones. How's the knee, by the way?"

It hurt like hell, but Dean wasn't about to admit either or. "Civil?" he croaked instead, trying his best not to look at anything beside Dick and the demons. Dick lifted his eyebrows as he came up to sit opposite of Dean, drinks in hand. Dean growled. "I find it's hard to be civil when you're workin' with demons."

He probably deserved the sharp nails that one of the demons dug into his shoulder for that. The pain focused him, however, which was what he needed. If he didn't focus, he was going to look over at the remains of the people again, and that would only be counter-productive to keeping calm. Dick's offered drink would help with that too; there was nothing quite like the burn of alcohol down the throat, and Dean already knew he was going to be needing that feeling a lot going forward.

If he survived this, of course.

"Working with? Hardly," Dick said as he crossed his legs at the knee and took a sip from his drink. "Keep on the payroll, however? That's just good business. It promotes an humanitarian image for the company if you hire daemons. And with the tax breaks, they practically pay for themselves."

Dick laughed, but only one demon reacted noticeably, his grin revealing sharp canines. The demon across from him tightened her grip on her pistol, but gave nothing else away.

Dean felt a chill go down his spine, glancing back at Dick. Not many demons Dean had met wouldn't react negatively to that kind of backhanded insult; they were either well-trained not to, or afraid to. Demons were scared of few things (angels were on top of that list), and they didn't like being under another species' beck and call. Dean wasn't sure which worried him more: that Dick had them under his thumb or, worse, they were _scared_ of him.

"Of course, that isn't what we're here to discuss, is it, Dean?" Dick asked, legs uncrossing when he sat forward. His thumb traced the rim of his glass, nostrils flaring again as he seemed to study him. "Now, I know your brother wouldn't have made the mistake of telling anyone about my little operation here. So, Dean, where did you come from?"

At the very mention of Sam, Dean forgot his pain, fear, and everything else. "You took my brother," he hissed, fists clenching against his knees.

"Did I?" Dick smirked, his eyes narrowing. "I'm sure that's debatable, but that doesn't answer my question, Dean."

"You really think someone else couldn't put two-and-two together and figure out what you were doing?" Dean snapped, but frowned when Dick chuckled, sitting back in his chair again.

"Few people have, Dean, and I always make the point of knowing exactly who they are," he replied, and then revealed his teeth again when he grinned. "I hate to have my little forays making the papers, so I like to meet with them. Give them a chance to come around to _my_ way of thinking."

Dean tensed. Was that what happened to Sam? he wondered, his eyes darting over to the walls and glass cabinets at the thought. Dick noticed, Dean glancing back when he let out a happy sound, and rose from the chair.

"Impressive collection, isn't it?" he asked, waving his free hand toward the cabinets. He looked back at Dean with another smirk, the light from the fireplace casting half of his face in shadows. "I know, I know, an all-American man like you, Dean, vinyl and flannel shirt collections are all you appreciate. But rare will you find a collection so complete. Nearly twelve of the fifteen humanoid species represented, including a few ones you won't see anywhere else. It's taken me years to collect them all — a man like me only appreciates the best specimens, and those are so hard to find these days. It's why I invested in my facility here, to create the best."

Dean frowned, confused. _Create_   _the best?_ What the hell did that mean?

Dick gestured with his glass toward the werewolf pelt on the floor, Dean swallowing around his tight throat when he glanced down into its glassy eyes. "This one gave us some of our highest returns on investment," he went on. "You should have seen her when she came in here, Dean. Weak. Frail. _Human._ Pumped full of hormones, no spark to be found in her. A wet rat had more personality. But when we were done with her... Well, I can show you, can't I? Cael, bring up the photos would you?"

One of the demons gave a quick nod, picking up a computer tablet from the desk and starting to tap at it. Dean looked over when the television flicked on, the first image to pop up of a young werewolf. She was still in her humanoid form, her ears slicked back, blue eyes averted from the camera. What Dean could see of her body, she was malnourished, and bleeding from the chains on her wrists and ankles. The image changed, the next showing that she was in the middle of her transformation, fur erupting all over her bloody body. The next picture came up, the werewolf fully transformed now, her claws and teeth gleaming as she lunged for the camera.

"Look at her. You can see it in her eyes now," Dick said from Dean's side. Dean focused on her eyes, pupils slits against her now silver irises. "The _spark._ It's a process to recreate it in a subject, but when it works, it can turn one sadly, unimpressive lycanthrope into _this."_

The image switched again, the werewolf out in a forest now. She was howling at something, possibly the moon with how the light made her dark fur look blue. "A pure-bred _Panthera siberias bipedalis_ in perfect condition," Dick said, sounding almost proud. "That full chest, that glossy coat — it only comes from a nutrient-dense diet of wild-caught salmon and whatever other animals she was feeding on. It took three days of tracking to bring her down, but I got her with a '36 Winchester 70 from five hundred yards away. Beautiful shot."

It took Dean a moment to process that, before it hit him like a gunshot. His heart pounded, eyes moved back toward the skulls, the plaques, the werewolf rug, and then over to the cabinet filled with several large rifles. _What did Dick do to all these people?_ he had wondered, and now he knew the answer.

"You hunt them," he whispered.

He looked at Dick, the light from the fire making the man's eyes seem to glow. "Yes," he murmured with a dark, hungry grin. "Yes, I do."

Dean went numb at that, heart lurching into his throat. _He's hunting them, he's_ hunting _them,_ was all he could think, until Dick spoke again.

"Your brother thought he could bring down my entire operation, Dean. He was wrong. I'd like to keep him wrong. Alasi?"

Another demon stepped forward, the one who had been pleased by Dick's earlier insult. "Sir," he said briskly.

"Give Mr. Winchester a tour of the facilities," Dick said to him with a pleased-looking smile. "Let's find out how he came to choose us as his destination, and if we'll be having any other guests stop by."

The demon grinned. "With pleasure, sir."

Dean was dragged to his feet before he could protest, his knee giving out on him almost immediately. He sagged to the floor, only kept upright by the hands on his arms, but he hardly noticed. His mind swirled, thoughts of _he's hunting them,_ mixing with the memory of all those names and faces he had looked at. All those lost people, all those families destroyed, because the sick bastard _hunted_ them for his own sick pleasure. Like they were _animals_. 

And Sam, what he had must done to _Sam,_ his baby brother...

Dean tasted bile in his throat again. He needed to yell then. Lash out. Fight. Kill. _Something_. The demons' grip was too tight though, his struggles to free himself futile. He could yell though, even though he wasn't sure what he said to Dick until he snarled it through gritted teeth.

"You're a fucking _monster._ "

The demons stopped when Dick held up his hand. Dean frowned in surprise when the man approached him, bending down to his eye level. In his eyes, Dean could see a vast emptiness, like an abyss that would swallow him whole.

"Oh Dean. There's no such thing as monsters," Dick Roman purred, with a slow shake of his head. "We're all just _meat_."

* * *

  **Present**

* * *

The roar of a gunshot jerked Dean out of the memory.

He jumped a mile, cursing under his breath as he frantically looked around the forest. That had sounded like a rifle; it had sounded _close_ too _,_ but where had it come from?

Dean's questioned was answered when there were two more shots in quick succession. With their fading echos, they were followed by distant shouts and yells. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but then there was a sound that he understood completely.

A scream.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean ran as fast as he could, following the echoes of that scream. Around him, the forest had come alive with sound, shouts and yells becoming more coherent.

"Cut it off, cut it off!" someone was yelling, while another cried, "Watch out!"

There was another gunshot, another terrified scream; Dean cursed, and ran faster.

Someone was being hunted. Dean knew that like he knew the name of every bone in the human hand; like he knew the name of every gun his father had ever owned. His heart leaped when he realized who the hunted could be, and he pushed himself harder despite his knee's protest, flying past trees and ferns.

 _What if it was Sam?_ What if Dick and his demons were going after him?

Dean leaped over a log, but when he touched the ground, his knee gave out on him. He caught himself on a tree before he toppled over, hissing through gritted teeth as pain flared up his body. There was no time to check on his knee, however; _you have to move, you have to move,_ he thought, pushing off the trunk and placing weight on his leg. It held, barely, but with the shouts growing fainter, it would have to do. He limped forward frantically, coaxing himself along with, _On your feet, soldier, on your feet—_

He only noticed the body on the ground when he almost stepped on it, and he stumbled backwards with another curse. As the shock faded, he ended up staring at the corpse, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. With its camouflage clothing, the body blended right into the forest floor, sunglasses skewed on its face revealing black eyes. That was its only identifiable feature, the rest of the demon's body bloated and blue, foam covering its lips.

 _Poison,_ Dean realized, but grew confused. What could have poisoned it?

He jumped when he heard a shout, whirling around in the direction it had came in. Whomever had made the sound was close, _too_ close, Dean hearing the crunch and snap of twigs and leaves as they approached. He only had a moment to dart back for the safety of the trees, barely hiding behind a bush and several ferns when several demons emerged from the forest. Dean froze when he caught sight of them, heart leaping again even though it was for an entirely new reason.

It was like his memories of the Azazel Uprising war had leached out of his brain and come to life again. The demons were in familiar camouflage fatigues with hoods lined with fur, light glaring off sunglasses that protected their sensitive eyes. They were heavily armed too, carrying pistols, assault rifles, knives and more; one even had grenades strapped to his chest. At the head of the group was a demon Dean recognized from Dick's lodge — the one who hadn't liked being insulted by the man, but hadn't done anything about it. Her black uniform was replaced with fatigues, a patch on her arm indicating her rank as a captain. She also had the largest weapon, a massive silver Winchester Model 70 hunting rifle strapped to her rucksack. It wasn't military-grade, but Dean knew a rifle like that was powerful enough to take down a bear.

The weapons were a far cry from the pistols and torture instruments the demons had had at the lodge. Demons weren't even allowed to own anything above a pistol, and that too could be limited based on where they lived. Yet here they were, Dick apparently letting his demons run rampant on his island armed with military-grade weapons.

 _Son of a bitch,_ he thought. Any demons coming after him and Sam were going to be armed with _assault rifles_.

It really was like the war again. He felt the inexplicable urge to look behind him, half-expecting to see an eight-year-old Sam desperately trying not to panic as a demon drew ever closer to their hiding spot. _It's okay, Sammy,_ Dean had told him before the demons had found them, something he couldn't do while he had been loading shells into his shotgun as the one of the demons had drawn closer to their hiding spot. It had actually been the exact opposite of okay, but he had reassured his little brother anyway. _It's okay._

He shook off the memory when he heard the captain barking an order. She and the lieutenant of the squad stood by the corpse, the captain's fingers on the mouthpiece of the headset she was wearing. She was looking out at the forest, as if she could see whomever she was talking to. "Bring that thing down _now_ ," she snapped and, off in the distance, there was another roar of a gunshot.

 _No_ , Dean thought, head jerking in the direction of the sound. As the echoes of the gunshot faded, only silence followed, and his heart plummeted. Had the demons killed whatever they had been chasing? _Please_ _don't be Sam_ , he thought, gritting his teeth, _Please don't be Sam._

He didn't know what he'd do if it _was_ Sam.

"It's down."

Dean looked back at the demons. "Confirmed, the djinn is down," the captain said with a wry grin, the other demons visibly relaxing.

 _Djinn?_ Dean frowned. The people with the blue skin and the weird tattoo-like markings? He had never met one in person, but he knew what they were. They were poisonous after all, glands in their hands and the saliva from their mouths secreting their poison. _Always check to make sure they're wearing gloves_ , Dean had been told, _And never kiss one._

With a start, Dean looked over at the body on the ground, and then out at the forest. Was that who the demons had been after? A djinn, and not Sam? Relief coursed through Dean then. It hadn't been Sam. _It hadn't been Sam_.

It had been someone else.

He cringed. A person had been murdered, and he was, _celebrating_ it. But why? Why were the demons going after a djinn? It didn't sound like Dick was with them, with how the captain had been barking orders at the shooter. Wouldn't their priority be him though, the one who had escaped their clutches?

He looked back at the demons as they started to move. The captain was talking on her radio again, saying something about them being right there. With a few hand gestures, she gave several orders that had two of the demons springing forward. One moved ahead of the group, gun at ready, while the other scooped the body up from the ground and trailed after him. The lieutenant stayed at the captain's side, watching her as she reached for her mouthpiece again.

"Luce!" she snapped, looking in the direction they had first came. "Luce, this isn't a goddamn leisure stroll — hurry the fuck up!"

From the trees emerged another demon, Dean frowning at the sight of him. While dressed like the others, there were no signs of his rank on his arm. He didn't look military like the others, his long bleach-blond hair streaked with red highlights, his coat unzipped with a thick scarf woven around his neck. He carried his assault rifle across his shoulders and, as he had been accused, he strolled right up to the other two, boots crunching loudly in the undergrowth.

"Easy, Zane, easy," he drawled, and even with her sunglasses on, Dean could tell the captain was not impressed. "You already got the thing, what's the rush?"

"We're on a schedule," she pointed out, but that only made the other demon smirk.

"And you're doing a fine job of keeping us on it too. Good thing too, given how the boss asks for complacency." The demon examined his sharp nails, his grin turning into a smarmy smirk. "Of course, who knows how the boss will feel about complacency with a .09 percent death rate."

Dean had no idea what they were talking about; whatever it was, the captain didn't take kindly to the remark. "It'll be .18 soon enough," she snarled, canines baring with the threat. The other demon didn't seem bothered, however; he only chuckled darkly, before striding off after the others.

In his wake, the lieutenant sneered. "I hope he gets eaten."

"From your lips to Lucifer's ears," the captain replied dryly, which earned her a laugh. The humor wasn't shared; she licked her fangs, a sign she was nervous. Whatever the cause was, it didn't stop her from heading after her squad, the lieutenant following close behind.

Dean let out the breath he was holding onto when they passed his hiding spot without noticing him. He peered out once they were gone, and for a moment, he was unsure of what to do. Part of him wanted to get as far away as he could from the demons; his priority was finding Sam, after all. But there was knowledge to be gained if he went after them — how many demons there were, for one, how armed they were, maybe information on why they were going after a djinn instead of him. Any intel that enemy forces didn't know you knew could be the difference between life and death on the battlefield, as his dad would have said.

 _Balls,_ Dean thought. Running away would be so much easier.

His knee held when he put his weight on it, Dean carefully making his way after the squad. He relied on the ferns, bushes and trees for cover, keeping one eye on the ground to watch where he stepped, another on the trees to see which direction the wind was blowing to ensure he stayed downwind. Though it had been years since he had had to use such a specific set of skills on avoiding being seen by demons, it came back to him naturally. _Guess there are some things you just can't forget,_ he thought grimly.

The demons moved in one of their standard military formations — one point person, the rest in pairs spaced out by several feet — maneuvering easily through the forest in a way that suggested they were quite familiar with it. They didn't seem to be worried about any danger either (but demons were always pretty confident), the captain and lieutenant conversing as they marched along. Dean only could catch bits of their conversation when he drew close enough, the lieutenant giving some sort of report.

"—the latest from the infrared scans are probably fairly accurate," she said. "The only one that's gonna be tough to find is the angel. It's been all over sector A lately — Terra and Michal been smellin' it for days."

Dean perked up at the mention of Castiel, and then frowned when the captain let out the smallest chuckle.

"He's hungry," she murmured, Dean having to read her lips to catch it. He slowed at that, confused, and then frowned again when the other demon twisted her head sharply to look at her.

There was an entire conversation in the glance they shared, before the lieutenant sneered again. "Well, that's just great, then."

"He won't be our problem," the captain replied, but that only made the other snort.

"Right," she muttered, "We're the ones going to the ghost forest. We have our own problems."

Dean didn't get a chance to wonder what the hell that all meant — and had she said _ghost forest?_ — as the lieutenant then muttered, "Why we doin' this, Zane?"

The captain gave her another look, but the lieutenant wasn't having it. She pulled her to a stop, leaning in as her voice dropped. Dean had to strain to hear what she was saying, creeping closer to listen.

"Everyone's talkin' 'bout it," she said. "Alasi and his team dead; Neil and his group are headed back to town. You tell us we're under orders to quarantine the island in _two days_. Hate to give the kid any credit, but Luce's got a point with the complacency thing. What the hell is goin' on?"

Dean honed in on that. Demons were going back into town? _Bobby_. What if they suspected Dean hadn't been working on his own, and went looking for his accomplices? He and Bobby had used fake names wherever they had went, but as was the way in small towns, everyone knew they were outsiders the moment they arrived. If demons were going to come around to ask about recent visitors, all someone had to do was tell them about Bobby. If they got to him...

"Remember the Winchester?"

Dean stiffened.

"The general or lawyer?" The lieutenant replied sarcastically.

"The District Attorney," the captain corrected with a snort. She was looking out in the direction where the rest of the squad was, but then turned back to the lieutenant. "His brother showed up this morning. Snuck right in without any of us even noticing."

The other demon's fell open; the captain nodded as if the other had expressed doubts. "We caught him, but when Alasi took him away for questioning, the human somehow got ahold of one of their weapons. He shot all three of them, and then escaped out here."

Hearing the story of his escapades told so simply, Dean didn't think it sounded as daring as it had been. (And he hadn't been taken away for questioning — he had been taken away to be _tortured_. Alasi had been the demon to hint that Sam might still be alive on the island somewhere, which had given Dean the will to lunge for the gun in the first place.) The lieutenant looked impressed, however; nervous too, when she ran her tongue along her teeth.

"That's why we're quarantining," the captain muttered, and then gestured the lieutenant forward. They started walking again, Dean following as closely as he could. "If he showed up, who's to say the authorities aren't right on our doorstep? The fucking _army_? One Winchester came pretty damn close to exposing us. Who knows how close his brother is, or if we're already compromised."

"I think you're giving that human far too much credit, Zane," interrupted a familiar voice. Dean caught sight of the demon Luce beside a tree, which he bounced off of to approach the other two. He said something Dean didn't catch, but whatever it was, it annoyed the other two.

"I know you're too young to know the name Winchester, kid, but never underestimate one," the lieutenant said.

"This isn't your usual cushy job here, Luce, getting to play with the animals all day," the captain added as she pushed some branches out of their path. "If you're not _careful_ , if you don't respect your _products_ , you're going to find the werewolf clawing your heart out after its run you down, and none of us are going to be there to help you."

Dean froze.

_Werewolf._

There was a _werewolf_ on the island.

It wasn't even a surprise there was one, really, but Dean felt his heart start to pound anyway. The werewolves he had seen in Dick's office had all been fully transformed; Dick hadn't provided the hormonal treatments needed to keep them from _not_ changing. Dean knew the stories from the old days — Grandpa Samuel was always bringing them up when they were kids — about what happened when a werewolf changed and so often turned on those they once called friends. But the change was worse for a werewolf who had been on shots and then suddenly wasn't. Dean had seen it at the Colt's Gate: Werewolves going rabid as their long-dormant hormones surged back with a vengeance; when their bones cracked and regrew to conform to their new shape and their natural instincts took over.

But that wasn't what scared Dean (though that was scary enough). Werewolves were carnivores, no amount of shots could change that. When transformed, they no longer differentiated between people and prey… And this werewolf was on an island that, as far as Dean had seen, didn't have any animals on it that it could eat.

But there were plenty of people...

 _We're all just meat,_ Dean remembered Dick saying, and his stomach dropped. Fuck, he really could not think about that. He really, really couldn't think about _Sam_ trapped on an island with a hungry _werewolf_ —

The demons had stopped again, Dean glancing over when the captain's voice rose in clear anger. The demon Luce seemed to be the source of it still; he had bared his teeth in displeasure, but the captain wasn't threatened. "Unless you want to take the worst path there is to meeting our father in Hell, I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut," she snapped. "I have two days to kill and dispose of everything on this island, and no patience for the likes of you. Do you understand?"

Dean's chest tightened. _Two days to kill everything on the island?_ Did she mean all the people? Why were the demons killing them?!

The answer, when it came to him, made Dean swallow down bile. It was because of _him_. The captain had said as much. _If he showed up, who's to say the authorities aren't right on our doorstep? The fucking army?_ They were hiding the evidence, weren't they, by getting rid of it...

 _Son of a bitch._ Was he going to get everyone on this island _killed?_

He felt paralyzed, sick _,_ but his eye was drawn over when he heard the captain speaking again. They had come to another small clearing in the forest, Dean seeing a number of demons standing around. It wasn't curiosity that made Dean creep forward to investigate; he wasn't sure what it was. His mind felt foggy, slow, dumb, afraid of what he might see, but needing to anyway.

At the angle he was at, he could make out the entire clearing. There were at least a dozen demons, standing near a body on the ground. It was the djinn, blue skin and tattoo-like spirals on its arms and legs bloody from the torso down. Aside from the gunshot wound on its chest, it was in terrible shape: shredded clothes barely hanging onto its skeletal body; arms and shoulders littered with bite marks and scars.

Dean's heart clenched. He had celebrated the djinn's death only minutes ago. Celebrated the death of an innocent person who had been starved and shot...

"I want this site quarantined. You have thirty minutes," the captain was saying to two demons, Dean looking over at her. When they didn't move, she grew angry. _"Now_."

None of them moved; instead, a demon standing near the djinn piped up. "It killed Rasi," he muttered. He waved his hand over to where the body of the dead demon was. It had been placed near the pit, and someone had draped a cloth over its face. " _Quarantine_ is too nice a way to go."

"Still got some meat on it too," another demon chimed in, which earned nods from several others. He licked his lips, shuffling on his feet. "Seems a shame to waste it."

Dean frowned at that, and then looked over when the djinn stirred with the softest of moans. _It's still alive,_ Dean realized, and then felt a stab of panic as he looked from the djinn to the demons around it. _It was still alive,_ and the demons were talking about...

The lieutenant stepped toward the captain, leaning in to say something to her. At the angle Dean was at, he could only read her lips. "Boss did ask for complacency."

The captain's back straightened, her fist clenching at her side. "Don't fucking poison yourselves," she snapped after a moment, and then turned away. She said something else, but Dean didn't hear her, heart pounding too loudly too. The other demons were moving in toward the djinn, who tried to raise its hands to defend itself. Its wrists were snatched before he could though, and the it let out a terrified, pleading sound.

There was nothing Dean could do for it though.

He could only watch in horror as the demons began to eat the djinn alive.


	7. Chapter 7

"Son, are you sure about this?"

It was a question Bobby had asked Dean when he had been almost ready to leave for the island. They had still been at the motel, Bobby nursing a drink at the table while he had watched Dean pack. There had been an expression on his face that Dean knew quite well, having seen that look on and off for months. Like all those times before, he had decided to ignore it, but Bobby's question wasn't as easily brushed off.

It had made Dean look down at the photograph he had in his hand. Its corners were frayed, with a large crease down the center from its time in his wallet. He had run his thumb along one of the torn edges, and then huffed under his breath. Bobby's question was stupid really, he had thought. They had spent months piecing together everything that Sam had discovered, and had driven more than three-thousand miles just for the slim chance of exposing Dick Roman's operation. Now that Dean had the opportunity to take down Dick himself, Bobby wanted to know if he was _sure_?

But Dean had found himself hesitating, his eyes falling to the photograph again. Despite its condition, the image was clear: Sam, in a black tux, with an arm around Jess, radiant in her wedding dress. They both held a twin, only babies at the time, red dresses complimenting curly blond hair. They were all smiling too, even the twins, a perfect family captured in a perfect moment.

A perfect family torn apart by Dick Roman.

Dean remembered clenching his fist against his side. He moved on then, briskly and efficiently, as if stripping a weapon. He set the photo in the box he had been packing; inside was his dad's leather jacket and journal, the only picture he had of his mom, the amulet Sam had given him when they were kids. Those all went on top of a letter for Jess, and one for the twins, when they were old enough to read and understand. Dean closed up the box then, running tape along the seams before he neatly wrote Jess's California address on the top.

When he finished, he had taken a deep breath and a swig of brandy for the road, before turning to Bobby.

"Bobby," he had said with a smile that, for the first time in months, he didn't have to force. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Now, after hours of being on the island, Dean wasn't sure of anything any more.

Doubts, however, weren't something he could entertain. _Just get to the mountain_ , he told himself, concentrating only on that. It wasn't easy: the pain from his knee had spread until his entire body ached; when the sun set, not only did the temperature plummet, it became harder to see where he was going. The only light was from the moon, when the clouds parted long enough for it to shine through. Still, he pressed on, because that was a thing he could _do_... And he had to do _something_ , even if it was just putting one foot in front of another.

Even that had its limits, though. His knee gave out on him when he was halfway up a hill, Dean cursing when he started to slip backwards. He slid right into a tree, and after a moment to think _Really?_ he pushed off the wood with one arm, only for the limb to give out completely. His body sagged against the trunk, and the relief coursing through his tired muscles meant no number of _"on your feet, soldier, on your feet"_ was enough to get him up again.

He gave up after the third attempt. With a sigh, he settled back against the tree, curling into his jacket for warmth. The forest around him was silent save for his harsh breathing, though that only made him wish it was just as quiet in his head.

Sam's whispers of _Promise me_ mixed in with the sounds of a person screaming as they were eaten alive, and Dean wasn't sure if he would ever be able to stop hearing it.

He shoved that thought away, but there wasn't much else to think about except how tired and cold he was. Even with thermals, two shirts, a button down and a jacket, Dean wasn't keeping warm. It was his own damn fault for not wearing more, since Bobby _had_ insisted he wear at least another layer and a thicker coat, just in case he did end up hiking all over the island. Dean had ignored him in favor of pulling on his second favorite jacket instead — at the time, who cared about the weather when he hadn't planned on coming back at all?

Bobby had called him an idjit before letting it go, but now Dean wished he hadn't. Though it was no fault of Bobby's, Dean wouldn't have minded if the old man had been more insistent about, well, _everything_. He had always talked Dean out of doing stupid things, but it seemed like forever since he had last tried to do that. Right around the time Sam had disappeared actually, now that Dean thought about it.

But that was when everything had changed, for all of them…

When Sam had first went missing, an entire city had mobilized to try to find him. Being in a high-profile position as an assistant district attorney of New York City, Sam had his fair share of enemies. That meant a long list of suspects: every criminal he had helped put away; any person that felt slighted by the D.A.'s office; anyone trying to get at the D.A. herself, using Sam as a pawn. Demons had been possible suspects too, some groups still bitter about the war, and willing to take out their grievances out on a son of a general if they had the chance.

It had all gone wrong when the police found a bank account, a rental car and a plane ticket to Mexico under one of Sam's known aliases. He and Dean had had many of them over the years; whether it was to avoid being targeted by demons after the war, or just to get a job before they were legal so they had money to buy food, those fake names had been vital. Their aliases had became public record over the years from their juvenile arrests and warrants, and when his brother had revealed them all when he started working for the city. So when one of those names had popped up again, the police had grown skeptical that Sam was actually missing. No matter how much Dean tried to convince otherwise, the evidence against him was damning.

As bad as it had been for Dean, however, it had been worse for Jess. She had been the only who seemed to keep it together the entire time, putting school on hold so she could deal with everything. There had been a lot to do — making missing person flyers, organizing searches, setting up the tip lines, assisting various detectives and FBI — but she had handled it all without complaint. She even kept the girls on their strict schedule (something Dean hadn't been able to maintain) of preschool, afternoon activities and bedtime by seven-thirty. It was almost like Sam had never disappeared, until one of the girls asked where their daddy was or Dean caught Jess crying.

But when Jess had learned that the police thought Sam had left on his own, only then had Dean learned what heartbreak really looked like.

Those memories chilled him more than the cold. He had never felt more like a failure than when he couldn't convince his brother's wife that her husband hadn't left her. Maybe because he felt so guilty, since he had known something was wrong the moment Sam turned to him and said, _Promise me._

But none of that would matter soon, he reminded himself, pushing off the tree to tackle the hill with new enthusiasm. Once he found his brother, it would be like he never disappeared at all. Jess wouldn't feel betrayed anymore, the twins would have their father back, Sam would be with his family again, and everything would be _perfect._

Unless his brother was dead.

Dean cursed. _Don't think about that either,_ he ordered himself. Going down that rabbit hole meant thinking about hurt and scared angels, rabid, hungry werewolves, demons eating people, and how he was getting everyone on this island killed. He didn't want to think about how Dick had said that they were all meat, and meant it _literally._ And he was definitely not thinking about Sam's voice whispering, _Promise me, Dean. Promise me—_

There was a loud _snap,_ Dean freezing in his tracks. He was behind a tree in the next moment, hand stealing toward his gun tucked in his waistband as he scanned the forest. There was no other sound or any kind of movement, but he didn't want to take any chances. Demons were sneaky sons-of-bitches, and if it was a werewolf…

Well, werewolves were the unpredictable factor. Was it male or female for one? Dean could only hope it _wasn't_ a female — they made males look like puppies. But had the werewolf been taught to hunt? When did it last have its shots? Was it fully transformed? If it was…

A gleam of light streaming along his watch caught Dean's eye, shadows on the ground chased away as they were bathed in cool hues. The cloud were splitting open to reveal the stars, along with one thing Dean had completely forgotten about.

The full moon.

"Balls," he breathed, and it was no surprise when a long, low howl lifted up from the forest. Werewolves called it the song to the moon: a lullaby to her wax and wane, a call for her watchful gaze to guide them through the night. And it did something to them too, even werewolves who had their shots; gravitational pull or something messing with their heads and making them extra vicious. Dean was right under the moon too, with no idea how far away the werewolf was. He wasn't sticking around to find out; he got right on the "running away" part as he pulled away from the tree.

He only managed one step before he came face-to-face with a demon.

"Well, well," the demon said with a smirk, eyes flicking black. His assault rifle was trained on Dean, the muzzle bumping into his chest. "What do we have here?"

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought, raising his hands as he backed up slowly. He hesitated when, to his surprise, he _recognized_ the demon, who had started chuckling while he looked Dean up and down.

"You got pretty far, didn't you?" Luce said, grinning. "Guess they were right about never underestimating a Winchester. But I'm kind of glad you didn't get picked off right away. Think of what they'll say when I bring you in."

Dean was only half-listening. If he had run into one demon, that meant there were more near by, he thought. He had to get away from demon and werewolf alike, but he needed a distraction first.

It came, before Dean even had time to think of one. "Luce!" a voice called from the forest. When the demon glanced over, that was Dean's opening, and he surged forward.

He swung to the side, out of the rifle's line of sight, grabbing the muzzle of the gun with one hand. In two swift movements, Dean had control of the weapon, Luce silent when the muzzle of the gun slammed straight into his face.

The demon stumbled back, Dean yanking the gun away from his grip. He struck again with the butt of the rifle, going for the throat to silence him before the demon found his voice. Luce's eyes bulged as he gurgled loudly, and it was that look of surprise that Dean smashed the rifle into again. There was a satisfying crack of bone that he relished, the demon falling to the ground with a loud thud.

Dean let out the breath he was holding onto, stepping away from the body. The demon's face was a mess of dark blood; if he was unconscious or dead, Dean didn't care. _Never underestimate a Winchester,_ he thought at him, before assessing his new weapon. It was a unique design, possibly made by one of Richard Roman Enterprise's firearm companies. It reminded him of a M4 carbine, a weapon he knew how to do a lot of damage with.

He only had a moment to appreciate the gun when he heard someone approaching. There was no time to hide, three demons emerging from the forest. "Dammit, Luce," the lead one was hissing. "What did we say about wandering off—"

The squad halted at the sight of Dean. They looked from him, to the demon on the ground, and then back at Dean.

Dean forced a grin, and held up his hand. "Uh, hello," he quipped.

He threw himself to ground when they opened fire. Bullets whizzed over his head, Dean cursing and crawling for the safety of a tree trunk. "Pin him down, pin him down!" a demon yelled, and Dean glanced over, seeing one, no two, demons darting opposite directions away from the third.

He ducked back behind the tree trunk, knowing the demons were going to flank him if he remained where he was. He needed to move _now,_ and he waited for the lull in the shots before twisting around the trunk and returning fire. It didn't matter where he shot — the demons ducked, and Dean didn't hesitate. He threw himself into a roll, using the inertia to land on his feet and bolt.

 _Distance_ , he thought as he ran. He needed distance. With his new weapon, Dean knew the odds were in his favor, but he was limited to what remained in its one clip. With distance, he had a better chance of picking them off. It was a just matter of not getting shot in the meantime, easier said than done when bullets tore into the trees he was flying past. The demons yelled from somewhere behind him, Dean sparing a glance over his shoulder. They were hot on his heels, and with a curse, he pumped his legs harder.

Luck threw him a bone; the forest opened up, Dean noticing he was running along the top of a hill. He made a split-second decision and ran down the slope, rocks and dirt tumbling after him. He slipped halfway down, sliding right into a boulder at the bottom. The rifle bounced out of his hands, and slid further down into a bush. The tactic paid off, however, Dean looking up when the demons above him ran by.

"Hurry! Don't lose him!" one of them yelled as they disappeared back into the forest.

 _It worked,_ Dean thought, hands stinging as he pushed himself off the boulder. His knee ached, too, but it held his weight, which Dean was grateful for. The demons would probably figure out that they lost him pretty quick, and Dean wanted to be ready for them by the time they circled back around. He looked over to where the rifle had fallen, plan already forming inside his head.

It was time to show these demons what it was like to be hunted.

A loud snort cut Dean off mid-smirk, and the low growl that followed made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He slowly looked over, meeting bright eyes from across the way. It wasn't another demon: she was too tall, too lithe, and clearly hadn't her shots in a long, long time. Dean glanced over her fur-covered body, at the saliva dangling from her lips, and then back up at her silver eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbled.

The werewolf snarled.


	8. Chapter 8

The werewolf was a seamless mix of human and animal, towering two feet over Dean as she strode into the moonlight. Tufted ears protruded out of a wild mane of black hair, dark fur covering the rest of her skin-and-bones body. In her transformed state, her elongated back arched forward, making her gaunt arms hang low, claws scraping along dirt as she walked.

As she lumbered toward him, the stench of death and decay came with her. Dean's eyes watered from the sheer force of it, but any pity he felt faded when he saw the look in her bright silver eyes. There was no trace of humanity in them, only a hunger so palpable that Dean very quickly realized what she seeing him as.

_Meat._

"Son of a bitch," he hissed, reaching for his pistol as he slowly backed up. The werewolf matched him step-for-step, seemingly unconcerned when he pointed the weapon at her. She only moved closer, Dean cursing again.

It was a struggle not to just shoot her then and there. Dean had to forcibly remind himself that, past the hunger and fur and teeth, she was a _person_. She easily could have been one of Dean's army buds, or Sam's ex-girlfriend, Madison, or their childhood friend, Paul, who loved nothing more than to chase tennis balls. If this werewolf had had her shots — or if she was anywhere but this godforsaken island — she wouldn't have been reduced to what she was now: an _animal_.

"Don't do this," he coaxed. He had heard that it was possible to talk a werewolf out their rabid state — not that Dean had ever seen it work. Still, he had to try for her sake. "I'm human. Werewolves don't hunt humans anymore, remember? We're friends now. Brothers, sisters, in-arms."

She didn't listen — Dean wondered if she could even understand him, or worse, if she just didn't _care._ Her hackles rose and she began to snarl, claws flexing as she bent low. It reminded Dean of a large cat about to launch after prey; apt, since despite their canine-like name, werewolves were more related to the big cats. Dean shook his head desperately. "No. I can _save_ you."

The werewolf let out a roar and surged forward, Dean cursing and firing. If he hit her, he never knew, one powerful smack to his chest sending him flying.

He hit the ground hard, rolling over and over — losing the gun along the way — until he collided with a large rock. As stars exploded in his eyes, he could hear Sam reciting, _"Lycanthropes use powerful strikes to immobilize their prey."_

Sam had been reading that to Paul — how old had Sammy been anyway? Four, and already learning how to read? — Dean remembering how excited the pup was about his emerging hunting instincts. Paul had wanted to test them out, and it had all been fun and games until the young werewolf had hurled Dean right into a pile of medical supplies. Man, how Dad had ripped him a new one for that…

The world came back into focus, pained amusement replaced with terror when Dean saw the werewolf headed straight for him.

 _Son of a bitch, son of a bitch_ , he thought, feet sliding in dirt and leaves as he scrambled to get up. He hurled himself off the boulder just as she was on him, Dean feeling the air get sucked away when she sailed past and hit the rock. He didn't dare look back, hearing jaws snap in the space he'd left behind as he started to run. The werewolf roared again, giving chase.

 _I'm going to be werewolf chow_ , Dean thought hysterically, flying through the forest. There was no way he could actually outrun her — but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try! — and he could sense she was gaining on him. He pumped his legs harder, his thoughts becoming more and more hysterical: He was going to taste like whiskey-marinated steak; he was going to rest in peace in _pieces; he was going to die_.

The forest cleared and Dean found himself out in the open, no trees or rocks to slow the werewolf's pursuit. He didn't have time to turn around, the werewolf striking him again from behind. Pain lanced up Dean's back and chest when he landed, rolling over rocks and dirt until he slid to a stop. The blow immobilized him, blood pooling from his mouth as he wheezed for air.

In a haze of pain, he remembered Sam, the way his brother turned to him with hollow eyes and whispered, _Promise me._ Dean's heart clenched, before his vision focused back on the werewolf. She was sliding to a stop in front of him, razor-sharp claws swinging down. Dean cringed, bracing himself. Oh, this was going to fucking _hurt_ —

Her claws never hit.

One moment, the werewolf was right in front of him; the next, a black blur rammed into her like a speeding train. It happened so fast Dean thought he'd imagined it, and he had to look down at his chest just to make sure. It was still there, aching and heaving, but free of blood.

 _What the hell?_ he thought before looking to where the werewolf gone. She was on the ground several feet away, pushing up on her two long arms and shaking her head. Dean stared in disbelief, before turning to her attacker, gaping when bright blue eyes met his.

The angel?!

 _You're supposed to be waiting for the boat,_ Dean thought stupidly as Castiel looked back at the werewolf. She was getting to her feet when Dean looked over, wiping at her face with her paw. It was a surprisingly human gesture, but that was gone the moment her eyes met theirs.

She stepped forward, bellowing a "That's my dinner!" roar if Dean had ever heard one. It turned into into a snarl as she charged, Castiel springing forward to meet her. The two behemoths clashed, except it wasn't much of a fight, the winner clear from the get-go.

The werewolf swung her arm upward in her signature strike, but where it had hit Dean, Castiel merely weaved out of the way. The angel easily avoided her next strike, and pivoted forward, snapping his foot out.

Dean watched in awe as the werewolf took two swift blows to the stomach and chest, Castiel bouncing back and lashing out with his other foot. He struck her in the side with a resounding crack that made Dean wince, the werewolf thrown to the ground again. There she lay, making one, single effort to lift up on shaking arms before collapsing with a loud whimper.

Dean gaped. _Holy shit_ , that had been…

His face grew hot, and he pushed the feeling aside. _Angel fetish. Bad,_ he reminded himself as Castiel strode up to him. With how fast everything had happened, it was almost surreal to see the angel so nonchalant to the werewolf he left whimpering behind him.

"Human, you must get up," he said, eyes flickering over the field and forest around them. "You must leave this place. You must cross the river to the west."

"Uh," Dean muttered, feeling stupid. Wait, why was he supposed to cross the river again? He didn't ask though; Castiel turned back at him and his cool composure was gone (or hadn't been there to begin with), Dean reading the apprehension in his eyes.

That was answer enough for now, Dean sucking in a breath before pushing past the pain in his chest and back to get to his feet. There was no ignoring his knee however; when he tried to stand, it gave out on him completely.

He cursed as he fell back, only to be jerked to a halt mid-air. Castiel's hand had clamped around his arm, the angel looking just as surprised by that as Dean was. He stared at Dean's arm like he didn't know what it was, before his fingers slowly curled into the fabric of his jacket. Then he took a step back, pulling Dean up to his feet like he weighed next to nothing.

Dean felt his face heat up again. He knew angels were strong, but he had to have _at least_ eighty pounds on Castiel. Yet here the angel was, taking down werewolves, catching him in midair and easily hauling him around. And when Castiel clearly wasn't in the best shape, what was he like at full strength? Dean wondered. Technically, he already knew — having seen Castiel fight in the war and all — but he also had vivid imagination for such things. Except now wasn't the time or place, Dean almost able to hear Sam's exasperated, _"Your angel fetish is showing, Dean."_

He realized he was staring at the angel's lips, cursed, and then focused back on the task of _standing._ But his knee refused to do it, feet were sliding along the rock and dirt. The pain in his ribs wasn't helping either and, frustrated, Dean forced his weight onto his bad leg. His knee popped like a gunshot, and he almost collapsed again.

Castiel's grip was firm, keeping him upright. The angel looked from his hand on Dean's arm, down to his leg, his brow slowly creasing. Whatever he saw, it seemed enough for him to decide to pull Dean's arm over his shoulder. Dean sagged against his side without really meaning to, but the angel held his weight, starting to move them back toward the forest.

 _Well, this isn't embarrassing,_ Dean thought, hopping unevenly along with the angel's pace. With each step, his lungs burned, and his knee and ribs sent stabs of pain through his body. But Castiel in such a rush worried Dean far more.

"Where's the fire?" he croaked out, Castiel glancing at him.

"There is no fire," he replied gruffly. Dean frowned. Had the angel just taken that question seriously? "You need to leave. The mountain is a dangerous place."

For the first time, Dean noticed the mountain to the south, its face and snow-peaked tip looming over the top of trees. His mouth fell open; he had thought Sam would be at the mountain — a mountain where a _werewolf_ lived.

Castiel went on. "You need to get across the river so your scent trail is lost."

Dean looked back at him, confused. "From the werewolf?"

"And vampirs."

The use of the correct terminology threw Dean for a moment, but it hit him in the next. He nearly tripped and fell over, the angel tightening his grip on his arm as Dean staggered back to his feet.

"Vampires?!" he cried. Oh, no, no, _no,_ that was just a sick joke, wasn't it? It had to be. _It had to be_. Werewolves without their shots were dangerous enough, but on an island where people were eating each other, why did there have to be vampires too?

At least the werewolf didn't know any better, but _vampires?_ Would they care? They still regularly drank human blood — nowadays, they would just leave a woozy person showing symptoms of blood loss and the lingering effects of their venom on a street for the police to find. But that was only a recent development. Dean knew the stories: how entire families used to disappear without a trace, their shriveled-up corpses found weeks later; how kids were told to never go out alone at night; the humans that were kept for weeks at a time within a nest, used as literal blood farm until the vampires grew tired of their taste and killed them.

The last known vampire-hunting-human time had been more than a half-century ago, but human-vampire relationships remained strained. Despite the movie version of _My Summer Blood_ or the recent discovery that their venom had powerful medicinal properties, there was still a lot of mistrust between the two species. Humanity had almost wiped them all out by the time the Third Agricultural Revolution had rolled around, and vampires were understandably still pissed about that. Get one drunk enough, and they would tell you that they still thought humans were only as good as their blood. 

Dean's stomach lurched painfully. There were vampires on this island with no other food for them to eat. Why would they care about the life of another person, especially a human?

It was too much. Dean forced himself not to think about it. He _couldn't_ think about Sam living on an island with _vampires,_ he told himself. He just _really_ couldn't fucking think about that right now.

But his thoughts went to the one they had left behind, and he looked back at the werewolf.

She had rolled onto her side, chest heaving with her hand against her ribs, much like Dean's was against his own. Dean's heart clenched in guilt, and the words were out of his mouth before he thought them over.

"We can't leave her."

Castiel slowed a little, Dean turning back to see his confusion. Dean knew he probably sounded insane, asking the angel who had just saved his ass to now help him save the person that tried to eat him. But that was the thing: she was a _person_.

"We can't leave her," he repeated. Castiel frowned. "She's innocent in all this. The demons, the vamps — they'll hurt her. Kill her."

"She… she can defend herself," Castiel said slowly. Dean lifted his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Angel, you just went all Chuck Norris on her!" he protested. Castiel's expression went from confused to blank. "Look at her, she hasn't even gotten up yet! We gotta' help her."

Castiel looked back at the werewolf again, brow furrowing. Dean felt a flicker of hope, but it faded quickly when his eyes settled on the scars on the angel's chest. They were almost luminescent in the moonlight, but also quite distinct in shape. Dean cringed and looked away when he realized where they had probably come from and who had probably given the angel them.

What was he asking the angel? he wondered.

His stomach lurched again, but one thing kept coming back to him: _it wasn't her fault_. The werewolf's humanity had been stolen from her; she was literally an animal that had been left to starve. She had never asked for this, and she didn't deserve to die for only doing what was instinct at this point. With only two days left, she _couldn't_ die.

And the angel! Dean glanced back at Castiel. The angel had hurt the werewolf, but only to immobilize her, when he could have easily killed her. He hadn't though, and that had to mean something, right? Dean could only hope as Castiel looked back at him.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, and Dean's heart leaped, before he grinned in relief. He _knew_ the angel would understand… but he had also asked a very good question. Half a dozen ideas flashed through Dean's mind, and he snagged the first one that made the most practical sense.

"Knock her out, with a blood choke," he said, demonstrating with one arm. Castiel's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We can carry her away to a safe spot. Past the river, right? She'll be safe there?"

"Yes," Castiel said and Dean grinned again. But it faded when, to Dean's embarrassment, the angel gingerly maneuvered him around to prop him up against the nearest tree. Dean went to protest — they were _both_ supposed to be carrying her — but Castiel darted away before he could get a word in.

"I'll just wait here then," Dean muttered sarcastically, but shut up when his ribs throbbed with pain as if telling him off.

He watched Castiel instead. The werewolf was hissing at the angel as he approached, her hackles rising from her head to tail. Castiel slowed, but the werewolf wasn't having it; she staggered onto her feet, swiping at the angel to keep him back. Dean was impressed — she still had some fight in her, injured or not — Castiel avoiding each swipe easily as he circled around for an opening.

He suddenly turned though, looking in the direction Dean was in. Dean frowned, confused, and then heard shouts coming from the forest.

He nearly fell off his tree when the three demons burst into the clearing.


	9. Chapter 9

_Son of a bitch, son of a bitch,_ Dean thought over and over. The demons were the same ones that had been after him before, though this time they had new targets. As soon as they cleared the trees, they looked straight at the werewolf and angel, not even noticing the human nearby. Dean watched as the demon at the head of the group bared his teeth, before lifting his rifle up and frantically gesturing the others forward.

“Go, go!” he cried, and the other two darted past him. “Don’t let them get away!”

Dean cursed again and, knowing he had only seconds to spare, he scrambled for his gun... Only to grasp air twice before he remembered he lost it when the werewolf had first attacked him. By then, the demons had run right past his hiding spot; Dean’s eyes shot to where the angel and werewolf were, a panicked mantra forming in his mind. _No, no, no, no—_

To his horror, the others hadn’t run the second the demons appeared. Dean couldn’t even tell if the werewolf had noticed the danger, her focus still on the angel. Castiel, meanwhile, stood stock-still, like a deer in the headlights as he stared out at the approaching demons. _Run!_ Dean wanted to yell at them, but neither moved. That had him cursing again, before he started frantically looking around him.

He needed a weapon. Or anything that could be used as a weapon. The closest thing was a tree branch on the ground, and Dean nearly fell over as he threw himself toward it. He snatched it up, right when he heard one of the demons let out a surprised yell that sounded like, “The angel?!”

Dean turned, seeing the demons frozen in their tracks at least thirty feet from their targets. He couldn’t see their faces, but the tension in their bodies told him everything he needed to know. They were scared — one even taking a couple steps back — but not scared enough to not snap their rifles up in unison, aimed right at the angel and werewolf. Miraculously, they didn’t fire... but that probably because they had already seen what Dean only then noticed: The gleam of silver in Castiel’s hand.

 _His angel blade,_ he realized. The _only_ knife that was okay to bring to a gunfight; a weapon angels trained with since birth if the stories were to be believed, and Dean _did_ believe them. He had seen what they could do with their blade even against the most well-armed opponents. Hell, he had seen what Castiel could do — his skill with his blade was legendary, especially during the war.

The only problem was that angels usually had the element of surprise in their battles; here, Castiel didn’t. As talented as he was, his blade was only useful in close range; the demons had the advantage over him as long as they kept their distance. To even have a chance at taking out the demons, Castiel would need something to distract them long enough for him to strike.

Or, in this case, _someone..._

With a determined grunt, Dean gripped the tree branch tight and started a hurried limp toward the demons. While there was no way to know if Castiel could move fast enough to take out the demons before Dean was shot at, he was willing to risk it. If it meant getting Castiel that chance, it was worth it. He couldn’t let Castiel or the werewolf die, either way. He couldn’t; he had to _save_ them—

"Hey! Hey!” he started shouting at the demons, hobbling faster. _“Hey, assholes!”_

It should have worked. It should have made the demons turn toward him long enough for Castiel to make his move ... If his shout wasn’t completely drowned out by the werewolf’s roar.

That wasn’t the worst part, however. After almost tripping in surprise, Dean looked over toward the werewolf just in time to watch her surge forward and strike Castiel.

“Holy shit!” one of the demons yelled. It was a sentiment Dean shared as he watched Castiel hit the ground, _hard._ His wings threw up dirt and dust as the angel toppled over twice and then slid against the ground, a flicker of silver bouncing away from him and disappearing into a cloud. Before he even came to a stop, the werewolf leaped after him, landing where he was and diving in after him. With the all the dust in the air, Dean couldn’t see a thing, but he could hear it: The snap of her teeth, her vicious snarls, her roar of fury. He cursed again, horrified.

“Yeah, sic’ em, girl!” a demon cried happily, while Dean started to move toward the angel and werewolf, desperate to do _something._ But he had to stop in his tracks when he heard a painful sounding _thunk_ , the werewolf letting out a pained cry and rearing back. From the dust, Castiel rolled out, using the energy of his movements to flip onto his hands and feet. His wings dipped low as he looked around, before he seemed to spot what he was looking for. Dean watched as he reached over for a gleam of silver on the ground but, before he could grab it, the werewolf plowed into his side. It sent both tumbling to the ground, another plume of dust rising up. One of the demons let out a whoop.

Dean almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was one thing to watch a werewolf go after an angel — it was another to see her hold her own. No matter how much Castiel kicked, punched or threw her back, she wasn’t deterred, lunging forward again and again and again. Dean didn’t know if she was just that _desperate_ , or if the angel wasn’t strong enough to fight her off. But whatever the reason — how hungry she had to be to take on angel twice; what it meant that angel couldn’t fight her off — none of that really mattered. The longer the fight went on, the more likely one of them was going to get seriously injured, or worse. Dean had to help, somehow.

He started forward again, but didn’t get far. The werewolf got lucky with a strike then, catching the angel just as he scooped up his blade. Castiel had to throw up his arm just as she swung her claws down like an ax, and the force of the two connecting knocked the angel back to the dirt. The blow left Castiel curled around his arm, wings trembling, the werewolf looming over him.

Dean took off again, heart pounding. He knew how werewolves hunted, and they were anything if not predictable. She would go for the killing blow next, and no one, not even an angel, could survive having their throat torn out. She was already tensing up in preparation for the final strike; Dean cursed, hobbling faster. He couldn't let her kill Castiel, he _couldn't_ —

It was too late. She dove in teeth first — Dean’s “no!” lost before he could even yell it — but then Castiel moved too, arm nothing than a blur as he lashed out. The blow made the werewolf let out a piercing shriek, and she almost toppled over, catching herself the last second. The new position put her right over the angel, her arms, torso and legs were within easy reach. Dean saw the flash of Castiel’s bared teeth before he started kicking and clawing, hitting every vulnerable position he could. The werewolf couldn’t defend herself from the onslaught, and Castiel didn’t let up, only pausing long enough to rock onto his back. The new angle putting him in the perfect position to lash his legs out like a whip, hitting the werewolf right in her chest. The kick sent her reeling, Castiel flipping onto his feet while she stumbled backwards.

Though Dean wished she would stay down, he knew the moment the werewolf looked up with a snarl that she wasn’t done. Anger, instinct, just plain hunger, or all three — they made her launch at the angel again. Castiel met her with his blade however, a swift uppercut to the chest that sent blood into the air.

Dean cringed. Even the demons shouted their dismay. But Castiel didn’t stop there.

With a swoop of his wings, he leaped into the air, and came down right on top of werewolf. They both hit the ground, the angel grabbing the werewolf’s flailing arm and twisting it violently. While she shrieked again, louder this time, Castiel raised his bloody blade up over his head.

Dean realized then what he was about to do. “No!” he yelled. He was going to kill her. _The angel was going to kill her_. “Angel, no!”

Castiel didn’t hear, didn’t listen, or didn’t care. There was nothing Dean could do to stop the angel as he plunged his blade straight into the werewolf’s chest.

* * *

Everything that happened after that was over in an instant, the demons (and Dean himself) getting a very deadly reminder on why angels were feared. But in the moments before then, in the small window of time where knife went through flesh, the entire world seemed to stop.

Dean had heard himself breathing. Had heard himself thinking: _He stabbed her. He stabbed her. He stabbed her._

He saw how the tension in the werewolf’s muscles drained away; how she slumped to the dirt as the angel slid his blade free. He looked at the blood that dripped from the tip of the blade, joining the growing pool on the ground around the werewolf. He watched as the angel stepped away from the body, before looking up and straight at Dean. A shiver had gone down his spine, and Dean remembered swallowing. Even from the distance, he recognized the look on the angel’s expressionless face: Dean had seen that look before, right before the angel had tried to kill him. Castiel’s eyes had been cold, pupils slitted, but even then, it had been like staring into a black pit that threatened to swallow him whole. Looking into those eyes, a familiar whisper rose up from the back of Dean’s mind, one he had heard before too.

_There’s no such thing as monsters, Dean._

Castiel’s gaze shifted away then, and instinctively, Dean followed it. That was how he realized the demons were looking right at him, and he stiffened in surprise, everything come back into razor-sharp focus.

Two of the demons were gaping at him, eyes so wide that the bright blue of their irises were visible against their black sclera. The third was mumbling something that sounded like _“What the—“_ before he snapped his assault rifle up, aiming right at him.

Dean’s heart leaped, but the demon never had the chance to make a threat or even fire. He didn’t get to do anything, but look over at his squad’s warning yell and see the angel that snatched him and snapped his neck.

It took seconds — _seconds_ — for Castiel to take down the remaining demons. They couldn’t even make a run for it — the angel was faster than them, grabbing them both by the faces and slamming them both to the ground. In the chaos, Dean realized there was only one person who needed his help, and it wasn’t the angel. He hurried over to the werewolf’s side, blocking out cries being cut off by the sounds of breaking bones.

To his surprise and relief, the werewolf was still alive … but she was in bad, _bad_ shape, Dean’s stomach sinking as he took in her injuries. There was just so much blood — too much blood — the werewolf’s dark fur slicked with it, moonlight making it gleam. And that, along with the froth at her lips and the way she kept gasping as if she couldn’t get enough air, were not good signs. Dean cursed under his breath, but then forced himself to focus, remembering his training.

 _Restore and maintain breathing and heartbeat,_ he told himself. That was going to be complicated however, what with a stab wound somewhere on her chest. He went over everything he knew about werewolf anatomy, brushing her ribs and sternum with his other hand as he searched for the injury. He bypassed the laceration on her chest, and found the puncture quickly after, still oozing out blood. It was near her heart —or it was her heart, Dean thought anxiously — each labored pump of the organ pushing more and more blood out. The werewolf let out a gurgling gasp each time it did, her head rolling against the dirt.

Wound located, Dean moved onto step two, shucking off his jacket so he could reach for his outer shirt. The layers underneath clung to his skin as he pulled it off, but he hardly noticed, pushing the shirt against the werewolf’s chest. He kept one hand firmly pressed against the wound, blood seeping through the cloth while he pulled the werewolf’s legs up so they bent at the knees. The tune of _Ramble On_ mixed in with the mantra going on in his head: _Stop bleeding, protect wound, treat shock._

That was going to be a problem however. How was he going to treat her wounds when he didn’t have anything on hand? He needed bandages for one (he only had so many shirts), antiseptic, some sort of light source, a goddamn evac, and an actual doctor. Though that was all moot if he couldn’t stop the bleeding—

He was cut off mid-thought the instant he heard a deep, long howl echo up from the forest.

“You gotta’ be fucking kidding me,” he breathed, frantically looking up at the tree line. The howl tapered off, but whatever it was, it was close — too close. He wasn’t the only one to react, the werewolf letting out a gurgling whimper as her eyes slid over toward the forest. Dean noticed Castiel, still by the demons’ bodies, was looking out as well, tense in a way that was not comforting. And that was saying something when he was already wary of the angel.

He hesitated before he called out to him, worried about drawing Castiel’s attention to himself or the werewolf. But when another howl went up, he had to ask. “What is it?” he asked, and the angel looked over at him. “Please tell me that isn’t another werewolf.”

Castiel’s eyes were wide. “It isn’t another werewolf,” he said. “They are hellhounds.”

Dean’s blood went cold.

_Hellhounds._

There was a lot that could be said about the demon's dogs. They were massive, probably the largest dog in the world; they were vicious, just as the demons had bred them to be; they still haunted Dean's nightmares, ever since he was a kid. His one encounter with a hellhound had been enough to last a lifetime; hell, even the mere thought of them made his right ankle ache, even though it was long-healed and there were only scars there now. Phantom pain wasn’t something he was too keen on, but that was better than acknowledging his pounding heart, or the way his free hand was shaking.

There was no escaping the facts, however. There were hellhounds on the island.

Dean’s stomach twisted violently. Sam was on an island with _hellhounds._

“We must go,” Castiel murmured then, a statement Dean couldn’t have agreed more with. But there was a problem with that, and he looked back down at the werewolf, his mind racing. He didn’t know how far away the hellhounds were (or who was holding their leashes), and who knew how much time he had before they were discovered. He still had to treat the werewolf’s injuries … But how in the hell was he going to evac her? Fuck, he was going to have to fight to save her life in more ways than one...

Supplies and weapons. That was what he needed … and it was possible he had both too. The demons! Not only were they well armed, they had gear on them — Dean could see one of their bags, the demon’s body slumped over it. Heart starting to pound, Dean scrambled to his feet, aching knee forcing him into a hurried limp over to the one of the bodies. Once he reached it, he bent down to frantically unclasp the pack straps, and once free, he pushed over the body to free the bag from the body.

 _C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,_ Dean pleaded as unzipped it. A box of ammo fell out, clacking against the ground. Dean shoved aside a flashlight and a pair of binoculars before he found his prize: A medical kit. It was in an orange bag with a white cross on it; judging by how heavy it was and its size, it was well-stocked too. Dean breathed out a sigh of relief, and shoved it back into the bag.

The weapons were next, Dean reaching for the demon’s assault rifle. Once its strap was over his shoulder, he went for the pistols on his belt next, taking the harnesses too. Those he stuffed in the bag for later, scrambling to his feet again to return to the werewolf.

Castiel, who had watched him the entire time, fell in step behind him. “We must go,” he repeated, but Dean shook his head.

“I’m not leaving her,” he replied as he dropped down beside the werewolf again. She hadn’t moved much since he had left her, the shirt over her wound completely soaked and her pulse erratic when Dean felt for it. He felt a trickle of panic, but he pushed past it as he applied pressure to her wound again. It left him working one-handed, keeping one eye on her and the other on Castiel, who paced side-to-side on the other side of her.

The angel paused when another howl rose up, looking out at the tree line. When he turned back to Dean, he did not look happy. “We _must_ leave,” he pressed, but Dean swallowed nervously before he shook his head.

“I’m _not_ leaving her,” he insisted, pulling out tape and bandages. He didn’t want to be stubborn, but he couldn’t let himself get spooked, not when so much was on the line. He still had to bandage the werewolf’s wounds the best he could before he could move her to a more secure location that was easily defendable. Not that he knew where that was, but hell, he was making it up as he went anyway so he’d figure it out. He did have experience on his side however: trying to kill a hellhound was like trying to take down a bear, but enough bullets could bring down anything. The demons holding their leashes would be the tricky ones — they’d be armed too, not only with guns but with better night vision, and giant dogs that could be giant distractions…

But he was going to have to cross that bridge when he came to it. First, he had to stabilize the werewolf, and that contained its own set of problems. She had lost a lot of blood (and still hadn’t stopped bleeding), and they were still three days until they even had a chance to get the medical attention she needed. With her injuries, could she even last that long…?

No. He had to help her. He had to _save_ her. The werewolf couldn’t die like this, not on this godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere. She had been taken from her home and family, been hunted by a demons and dogs and psychopaths, been left to starve… She didn’t deserve to die, drowning in her own blood, miles and miles from her family who would never know what happened to her. He couldn’t let that happen. He _couldn’t._

“She will not survive.”

It was like the angel had stabbed _him_. Dean flinched, eyes jerking up to meet Castiel’s. The fact that the angel was probably right hurt, but that pain swiftly turned into anger, and Dean snarled at him. “And who’s fault is that?!” he snapped, Castiel leaning back a little. “You _stabbed_ her! How could you stab her?!”

The angel glanced down at the werewolf, and as Dean watched, his pupils slitted. “It was the hunger,” he murmured. He was so faint, his lips barely moved. “I could not keep fighting it.”

It was the sorriest excuse Dean had ever heard — even if it was true; he had seen it for himself how the werewolf wouldn’t let up — and he snarled again. “And stabbing her was the answer?!” he cried, and then shook his head, beyond frustrated. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you?! You’re an angel! You’re supposed to save people!”

Castiel started at that, and he blinked several times, his eyes returning to normal. It made Dean falter, the angel’s expression so confused, like Dean had said his name out loud again. He looked away, Dean unsure if he should do anything, though he had a sudden urge to say his name again…

The werewolf let out a sound then, and Dean head shot back down to her. To his complete surprise, he saw that she was looking right at him — but it was more than that too. _She_ was looking at him — the part of her that could be called human had come back. Dean could see her confusion, pain and fear mixed with her awareness, the tears that slid down from her eyes when she blinked up at him. She had come back — at probably the worst time ever, but _she had come back._

“Fuck,” he whispered, and then glanced over when she lifted her paw up. Instinctively, he went to meet it with his free hand, only for her to bypass it and move further and further up. Dean froze when her fingers touched his face, grazing his cheek. It was so gentle that his mind went blank; he could only kneel there, feeling her paw trace down his jaw to his neck.

His inability to even process what she was doing, let alone _why_ , was probably why he barely reacted when her paw encircled his neck and grabbed tight.

Castiel made a sound, Dean seeing the gleam of his sword out of the corner of his eye. But he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to, her claws digging into his skin, his breath stuck in his throat. He was unable to look away from the werewolf, watching as her lips parted to reveal her bared teeth. The snarls that started to leave her mouth grew in strength and intensity, all traces of confusion and fear in her eyes fading away as her pupils slitted. It was a look Dean had seen before, and it sent familiar chills down his spine, just like it had before. With it, came a familiar voice in the back of his mind.

 _We’re all just meat_ , it whispered, as the werewolf lifted up toward him, her jaws opening wide.

She didn’t get far. Halfway there, she slowed, before her body slid back down. Her hand loosened its grip, and then fell to dirt as her head rolled back. Her chest heaved once more, the rattling sound leaving her throat sounding pained. And, as Dean watched, her pupils dilated and her last breath left her lips.

For what felt like the longest time, he could only stare down at her. His mind felt like a tape jammed in a cassette player, and he couldn’t spool it back together. He could hear himself breathing, and he could hear himself thinking: _But she came back. She came back…_

“We must go,” Castiel said then, jerking Dean out of his thoughts. He glanced up at him before he heard it: the hellhounds barking, and indistinct shouts of demons. As Castiel pulled away, Dean remained where he was, looking out at the forest. His blood started pounding in his ears as he swallowed around his raw throat, fingers twitching toward the rifle at his side.

They had done this to her, he thought. They were the ones who had killed the werewolf — who had taken her mind at the end. All Dean wanted was to find the nearest cover, set up his newly acquired weapons and wait for the demons to come to him. And he was going to make it _hurt_ too — go for the kneecaps first, maybe. That would be nice and painful…

“We must go,” Castiel repeated, but Dean ignored him, imagining everything in vicious detail. When he was finished with those demons, he would go find Dick and see how he liked it. Dick with his island, who hunted people, who said he wasn’t a monster — Dean would save several bullets just for him: one for the werewolf, one for his brother, one for Castiel, one for himself. He would just shoot and shoot and shoot and shoot until Dick’s body was riddled with bullets, and his blood soaked the ground while all his trophies watched with their hollow eyes…

_“Dean Winchester.”_

Dean jerked in surprise, eyes shooting to Castiel’s. The angel looked frantic now, body so tense it seemed like he would fly off at any moment. He was scared, and it made Dean scared, his anger fading just as quickly as it had come. He swallowed again, and then looked away, back down at the werewolf. Suddenly his plans for revenge felt so dumb. He honestly thought he could take on Dick? Really? Dick Roman, who destroyed werewolves’ minds and terrified angels? Dean couldn’t even save one werewolf…

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel pleaded again. Dean flinched, and then gave the werewolf a final, mournful look. Her glassy eyes reflected moonlight and stars, as if they had never had any life in them to begin with.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispered. _“Son of a bitch.”_


	10. Chapter 10

As Castiel led Dean deep into the forest, the sounds of dogs and demons faded away. The angel ran ahead, spry as a deer as he flitted through the trees and bounded up hillsides. Every now and then, he paused to wait for Dean, who was hobbling after him the best he could. With his fading adrenaline, every breath and step Dean took burned. The unforgiving terrain added to his problems, too — more than once, he slipped and stumbled on roots or snow, streaks of pain shooting up his leg straight to his knee and his ribs. That, along with the weight of his newly acquired weapons and gear, slowed him down to what felt like a snail's pace.

It all left him very irritated, a feeling that only grew as he watched Castiel dart off again. And when he was already angry, guilt-ridden and on edge, the emotional mixture just boiled up toward the surface, ready to explode.

Castiel guided him to the river, Dean hearing its deafening roar long before he saw it. It cut right through the forest like a gaping wound, water spray white when it hit the rocks in its path and shot into the air. It was an impressive sight, but Dean’s attention was soon drawn away, his gaze fixing on the mountain that rose high above the tops of trees.

It was the same mountain that overlooked the forest Dean had thought Sam would be in … Where vampires apparently lived, and at its base he had left a werewolf's body behind to be destroyed... or worse.

Before Dean could really think about that — _the djinn’s sobs as it was eaten alive; the werewolf’s eyes as she took her last breath; Sam, his baby brother, being chased down, devoured_ — he pushed the feeling down, as far as he could make it go. It was akin to swallowing battery acid, but still better than the alternative. Castiel was moving on too, and Dean tore his eyes away from the mountain, following after him.

After crossing a narrow part of the river on a slippery, makeshift bridge of wet rocks and a log (an experience Dean never wanted to repeat), they left its roar behind and entered the forest again. There, Castiel slowed to a pace that Dean could actually keep up with, the angel’s pauses now only to look around. Every time he did, his wings would tense and he stood tall, head slowly turning to scan the forest. It reminded Dean of a bird, but he was too tired to find any amusement in that. Whatever Castiel was seeing or hearing, Dean couldn’t figure out, and the angel didn’t comment on it either. He simply moved on.

What he did do was keep glancing over his shoulder at Dean, as if making sure he was still there. After the ninth or tenth time, Dean began to grow irritated again, and almost commented on it. (What? Did the angel expect him to trip and fall or something?) But the words died on his lips when Castiel suddenly stopped, and Dean nearly ran into him. He stumbled back, nose itching from almost getting a faceful of feathers, while Castiel turned to look at him.

“We are here,” he murmured.

Dean frowned. While he hadn’t exactly been paying attention to where they were going, he hadn’t realized they were going to end up somewhere either. _Here_ turned out to be a base of a small hill, though there was nothing remarkable about the place as far as he could tell. It was secluded, a dense thicket of saplings and bushes circling half the space almost like a fence, older pine trees lining the other side. It was quiet, only the sounds water trickling nearby and the breeze rocking through the trees.

Really, the only thing that made the place stand out from the rest of the forest was a large hole in the hillside. Leaves, twigs, bough and dirt were crammed around the opening, reminding Dean of an animal’s burrow. A _large_ animal’s burrow, he realized, which made him wonder what kind of animal lived there.

It took him a moment, but when it dawned on him, he glanced back at Castiel.

“Uh, what is this place?” he asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. “Is this your... y’know, your home?”

“Home?” Castiel repeated with a whisper, wings rustling loudly against the fabric of his coat when he shifted on his feet. He glanced away, brow furrowing; Dean couldn’t tell if he was really thinking about the question, or he was just confused.

It took a long moment, but eventually the angel looked back at him. “I…” he began, still frowning. “I suppose.”

Despite already guessing that, Dean still found it depressing to hear. (And it was worrying how long it took Castiel to reply, but that was a whole other issue.) Yet, he couldn’t find it in him to be surprised, not after everything he had seen. The most famous angel outside of Michael had a home that was a hole in the ground? That seemed almost quaint.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” he muttered sarcastically as he looked away from Castiel. “You should think about moving though. The neighborhood sucks.”

Castiel didn’t reply … Or he needed another minute or two to reply, Dean wasn’t sure anymore. Why was he here, anyway? he wondered then, looking around the clearing once more. Now that he thought about it, they probably should have parted ways after they crossed the river; instead, Castiel had brought him here.

When he asked, Castiel cocked his head at him.

"This is a safe place,” he said slowly, and Dean almost, _almost_ laughed. Safe? As if anywhere on this island could be called _safe._ “The daemons, the vampirs ... They will not come here. You can rest.”

Rest? Dean felt himself twitch, suddenly acutely aware of how heavily he was breathing and the sweat trickling down his head and neck. His shoulders tensed, and he side-eyed the angel.

“What makes you think I want to rest?” he growled before he realized it, and Castiel’s brown furrowed again.

“You are… hurt. Tired,” he whispered, and Dean felt his cheeks heat up. Someone would have to be blind and deaf to not realize he was injured and exhausted, but he was defensive all the same. With that feeling came a flash of anger, making him bristle as he glared at the angel.

“I wouldn’t be so hurt if it wasn’t for you,” he snapped, not really thinking about what he was saying, only that it mixed in with the mantra of _he stabbed her, he stabbed her, he stabbed her._ He was just so _pissed_ , and Castiel just stood there, face blank. “Why didn’t you tell me what was on this island?!”

That moment he said it, he seized on it — it was a good thing to focus his rage on. Castiel had had plenty of opportunity to tell Dean what to expect, and he hadn’t! At the very least, he could have told him that there were vampires and werewolves, and that they would hunt him too. If he had known—

Dean faltered. If he had known, what would he have done? Would he have not gone out? Would he have went straight to the boat and not searched for Sam? While he was a poster boy for self-denial (and would even admit it if he was drunk enough), Dean knew that he probably wouldn’t have cared and went looking for his brother, come hell or high water. And the werewolf and djinn would have died either way … They had been doomed the moment he had stepped onto the island.

The island Sam hadn’t told him about … Because maybe he knew exactly would have happened if he had.

_Promise me, Dean._

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. He felt so exposed then — even more so with Castiel watching him like he was. He could feel how sticky he was; hear each wheezing breath that left his throat; smell the werewolf’s blood on his clothes and hands. It mixed with the aches and pain in his body, muscles begging for relief and the stiffest drink he could find. Fuck, he needed a drink ... but mostly, he wanted to be alone.

“Water’s this way?” he croaked out, gesturing in its general direction. Without waiting for an answer from the angel, he limped off, hoping it didn’t look like he was running away.

A thin path guided him through the trees, Dean following it until he came to a pool of water fed by a creek that wound its way down a hillside. It wasn’t far from the angel’s thicket, but by the time he reached it, he was panting and his knee ached worse than before. The wet, slick banks didn’t help with that, his boots slipping a little in the mud and sending pain up his leg. He cursed, and then took several deep breaths before he slowly bent down to sit on a flat rock. It was pure torture to do it — ribs and knee screaming at him — and it took everything out of him by the time ass met seat.

The relief that went through him was almost as good as a drink (but not quite), Dean groaning softly as he let his rifle slip to his side and stretched out his knee. It popped loudly, and he blinked sweat out of his eyes to look down at it, touching the inflamed skin through the hole in his jeans. Overall, he was a mess — cuts, scrapes, bruises, unhappy ribs and a neck that was probably turning a faint purple — but his knee was still his worst injury. If he had made it off the island alive, he would be surprised if he could ever walk normally again. Hell, part of him wondered if he would be able to walk when he tried to get up...

That would be just _great_ , wouldn’t it? One more problem to add to his long list of problems, which already included demons, hellhounds, whatever else was on this island, and an entire day lost just trying to find his brother. And all he had to show for all his hard work was a dead werewolf and djinn … and no clue where Sam was.

Dean swallowed around his raw throat, eyes started to sting. None of this should have happened, he thought, gritting his teeth. None of it. If he had killed that bastard Dick Roman when he had the _chance_ —

The crunch of undergrowth and rustle of branches jerked Dean out of his thoughts. He reached for his rifle as he looked behind him, relaxing when he saw it was only Castiel approaching the pool. Irritated, he almost snapped at the angel to go away, but the urge faded as he watched Castiel crouch down beside him.

It was the first time Dean had really gotten the chance to study the angel since they had met, but it still made him very uncomfortable to look at him. He couldn’t help but compare Castiel to when he _first_ met him, back during the war. Castiel had been in his now-legendary silver-and-blue armor, feathers on his great black wings reflecting hues of blue, violet and green when they caught in the sunlight. Dean remembered the Enochian protection symbols on his arms between his gauntlets and shoulder plating, the symbols of his host's crest engraved on his armor, and the demon-binding sigil painted on his face with amazing detail. He had been like nothing Dean had ever seen before, looking every inch a warrior like the stories.

Dean would have killed to have that Castiel back … But all he had was this Castiel, who just looked _tired._ The angel’s eyes were half-lidded, his movements slow as he tucked his knees against his chest, his gray wings looking so much smaller than Dean remembered. In the moonlight, the scars on the angel’s chest glowed white, like exposed bones against his skin. Dean could barely look at them, and had to turn away.

He glanced back when Castiel leaned forward to dip his hands into the water, not even flinching from the cold as he began to wash them slowly. Blood spiraled off them, and it made Dean start in surprise, before he really looked at Castiel. There was a spray of blood across his torso and coat, but it didn’t appear to be from an injury. He did have one though: on his arm, where bloody gashes on his coat sleeve hinted at the damage underneath. Dean felt a stab of guilt, which only grew as Castiel cupped water in one hand and lifted it to his arm, letting it trickle down onto his coat.

That was too much. “Don’t,” Dean croaked.

Castiel’s eyes shifted to him, and Dean grimaced. How could he have forgotten the angel had been injured? The werewolf had hit him, he had _seen_ it. But how serious was the wound? The angel didn’t look like he was in any pain … But the only real emotion he had seen out of Castiel was worry, so that wasn’t much of an indicator. But either way, Dean was not letting him treat his injuries with _water_. (Was that all he had to work with all this time?)

“I should take a look at that,” he said. Castiel’s brow crinkled, and he cocked his head as Dean shucked off his bag. The movement pulled at his ribs, but he ignored the flare of pain, setting the bag in front of him and unzipping it. The medical kit was right underneath the pistols he had grabbed, Dean setting them aside so he could pull out the kit and flashlight. (Why the demon had packed a flashlight was anyone's guess, though Dean wondered if it had come with the kit.) He hadn’t had the chance to take stock of its contents yet but, after clicking on the flashlight, he was impressed when he looked inside. Supplies ranged from bandages to cavity fillers, and Dean had to hand it to the demons. They clearly didn’t fuck around when it came to emergency care.

He stuck the flashlight between his teeth, and leaning forward to wash his hands. Even though it hurt to bend down and the water was freezing, there was something comforting in the routine of cleaning them, scrubbing them with antiseptic and pulling on surgical gloves. It wasn’t anywhere near the drink he desperately wanted, but it helped calm and focus him in a way few non-alcoholic things could.

“A’right, gimmee,” he mumbled around the flashlight, holding out his hand. When the angel gave him a confused look, Dean rolled his eyes, and reached for his arm himself. He gently grasped him by the wrist, pulling it over into the light, where he started to roll up the sleeve. He didn’t get far, pausing when Castiel’s breath audibly hitched.

He looked up, and while the angel wasn’t showing any signs of pain, his eyes were glued to Dean’s hands. Frowning, Dean glanced down at his hands and then back at Castiel. No change. But since the angel didn’t say anything, Dean decided not to ask, continuing on … only to hesitate when he noticed the deep scarring around Castiel’s wrist.

It was old, encircling his entire wrist. Castiel had been bound at some point then … and had tried to escape. The metal of the cuffs would have eaten into his skin as he tried to slip his hands free or if he had pulled at them, and he would have had to struggle hard to leave scars like this. He had similar scarring on his ankles too — Dean remembered seeing them, and that made him swallow nervously.

The demons had kept all their captives in that underground prison (their _holding facility_ , as they had called them) before releasing them on the island. Dean remembered seeing the rows of cells, each with bars on the walls perfect for linking handcuffs through them...

There was nothing he could do for the scars however, and Castiel, though watching him, didn’t comment on them. He hadn’t even seem to notice, his focus still on Dean’s hands, and for that, Dean was grateful. Part of him _really_ did not want to know what Castiel had been through.

What needed his attention was Castiel’s injury, but, to Dean’s surprise and relief, it wasn’t too bad. The four lacerations across Castiel’s forearm looked nasty, but he had seen a lot worse werewolf-inflicted wounds — these were more like an over-sized nicks in comparison. Castiel had been lucky; all he needed was a quick clean and bandage ... though Dean was just going to have to hope that both the angel and the werewolf had kept up on their tetanus shots.

With that settled, he pulled the flashlight from his mouth and nodded toward the ground. “Take a seat, Angel,” he said, and Castiel blinked several times before looking down at the dirt. When he had sat cross-legged on a rock, Dean handed him the flashlight to hold and then gathered the supplies he needed. First he had to clean the wounds, and armed with his wet handkerchief he dug out of his pocket, he got to work.

Castiel was completely engrossed in what he was doing, eyes following the sweeps of Dean’s handkerchief as it soaked up blood and dirt. “Are you… a doctor?” he asked after a long moment, and Dean’s lips twitched toward a smile.

“Nah,” he muttered with a shake of his head, dabbing around the lacerations. “I’m…”

 _Not much of anything._ Dean grimaced. A deserter and a dropout, most likely — he had skipped all his mandatory training at the reserve base for the past six months, and had missed registration for the next semester for school. “I was,” he corrected, embarrassed, “A medic. But I’ve been doing this since I was like six, so you’re in capable hands.”

The joke fell flat, though Castiel did lift his eyes to meet his. It was difficult to read his expression — maybe a confused-concern? Dean guessed — before he frowned gently. “You were … young,” he murmured.

That wasn’t the first time Dean had heard that from people over the years but, as he always reminded them, there _had_ been a war going on. But it was strange to hear that from Castiel, and Dean lifted an eyebrow as he ripped open an antiseptic wipe packet.

“Aren’t angels taught from birth on how to fight?” he pointed out as he dabbed at wounds with the wipes. “To live and breathe the battlefield?”

He remembered the old History Channel episodes he had watched about that — the footage they had used of fully armored angels moving in perfect formation as they fought or marched. Each angel had intense martial art and survival training that lasted years, and made boot camp look like a walk in the park (or at least that was what his drill sergeant had been fond of saying). It honed them into living weapons, and it had never ceased to amaze Dean — or make him wonder what it would be like to be taught to never fear battle or death.

While he easily had a billion questions about the training regimen and process, something else piqued his interest more, as it never had really been answered by the media. With Castiel here, it was the perfect time to ask, too.

“What about you, Angel? What happened to you after the war?” he asked, curiously. Though a lot had been written about Castiel over the years, most of it had been about his military campaigns, not necessarily on his personal life before or after the Azazel Uprisings. Dean had tried to keep track of it all, but it hadn’t been easy, what with all the moving his dad had them do after he had left the military. He had always picked up whatever magazines, books and newspapers he could find over the years — he still had them too, packed away in a box at Bobby’s house. “Wasn’t there talk of making you an Arch? Whatever happened with that?”

Castiel, who had been staring at his arm while Dean cleaned it, lifted his eyes to meet his. “Arch?” he repeated, his frown returning.

Dean hesitated. Wait, did he have that wrong? That _had_ been a while ago … but no, that was right. It had meant big things for American-Jannahian foreign relations at the time, not to mention between the American host and the various Jannahian hosts themselves. “Your host didn’t have an archangel, right?” he explained, “You needed a new one and the other hosts had decided on you…”

He paused when he realized the absurdity of explaining angelic politics to the very angel involved in them. Except it didn’t seem to be resonating with Castiel, his frown growing deeper and deeper while Dean had been speaking.

“No, that is not …That is not right,” Castiel started to say, before he paused. His eyes grew distant as if he was thinking it over, and then he gave a slight shake of his head, gaze refocusing. “No. We… We didn’t want ranks. We didn’t want the hierarchy.”

Dean frowned. He had no idea what Castiel was talking about. “What do you mean?”

“Our host …” Castiel explained slowly, brow furrowing more. It looked like he was struggling to remember … unless he _was_ struggling to remember, Dean thought worriedly. “Gabriel … he did not want that for us. He decided we were to be different. He stepped down as our arch, and dissolved the host’s hierarchy.”

This was all news to Dean, and he almost couldn’t believe it. None of the news stories had ever covered that, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have missed that. It made no sense: the American host was one of the most well-documented hosts in history … had they really done all that? Dean knew they were different — they were only angel colony outside of Jannah, for one … and okay, they didn’t have an archangel obviously, but Dean had thought the former had died or something. But rejecting the hierarchy and their ranks? Going against everything that the books and videos swore up-and-down were ingrained into the angelic host’s very identity? “Why?” he asked, utterly confused.

“It was... important,” Castiel murmured, his frown fading as his eyes grew distant again. “We needed to discover what it meant to be an angel for ourselves.”

Now Dean was just lost. They wanted to find out what it meant to be an angel? Besides the whole ‘fierce, absolute, most terrifying weapons’ thing? They helped people, too. Saved them. That was Dean loved most about angels — that they were strong enough to save everyone, from teenage boys to entire nations. Wasn’t that what it meant to be an angel?

It didn’t make any sense. And there was something else bothering him too — the name Castiel had brought up. But that was a little easier to figure out, Dean frowning when the answer came to him. “Wait … Gabriel. The actor angel? _He's_ your former Arch?” he said, and then without really thinking asked, "Didn't he do a porno once?”

Castiel’s eyes went comically wide, and then his gaze skittered away. “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” he mumbled, and that, along with his expression, made Dean burst into laughter.

Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Fuck, Castiel’s _face_. Who knew angels would be embarrassed about porn? Hierarchy or not, that must have not gone down well if that was his reaction—

He laughed so hard that it took him a bit to notice the sheer look of shock on Castiel’s face. The moment he did, Dean cut off mid-laugh. Shit, had he insulted him? he wondered. And _shit_ , had he just admitted to looking for angel porn? Dean felt his cheeks heat up, and he coughed uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he muttered quickly.

Castiel’s brow creased every so slightly. “Why?”

Dean hesitated before replying — well, he wasn’t going to admit about the porn thing if he could help it. “For, ummm, laughing?” he offered and Castiel’s brow creased further.

“Why... would you apologize for laughing?” he asked, tilting his head. The confusion faded, replaced by something that looked more like _wonder_ to Dean. “It... has been a long time since I have heard laughter.”

That had to go through Dean’s head twice before what Castiel said really hit him. It made him wince, and he had look away. What did he even say to that? Sorry? That that was the most depressing thing he had ever heard? Fuck, what was it like not to hear laughter for almost three years?

Yet something about that struck a chord in Dean too, and it took him a bit to realize why.

When was the last time he had laughed? he wondered.

Not after Sam had disappeared. Certainly not after Jess and the twins left for California. Maybe in the weeks prior to his brother going missing, when everything seemed to going back to normal. Sam had been working less, and spending more time at home, doting on the twins, taking his dog for his damn walks, going out on dates with Jess. Dean had never been more relieved or happy … at least until Sam had turned to him the week before he went missing to say, _Promise me._

It still wasn't easy to think about everything that happened after that, so Dean did what he did best: Refused to. Instead, he made light of the situation, like he was also good at. “Well, you’d best get used to laughter, huh, Angel?” he said to Castiel, forcing a grin for his sake. “Couple of days, all you’re going to hear is laughter when you’re with your family again.”

Castiel’s expression of awe faded. “My family?” he whispered, and Dean nodded as he gathered together bandages.

“Yeah. There’s a difference, right? Between your host and your actual family?” He remembered that from television, though he was pretty sure it was called ‘uniformly-related group’ or something weird like that. What he couldn’t was all their names, but he did the best he could. “I know a few of them: Anna, Rachel and Balthazar. There was another blond, a couple with brown hair, oh and this huge, bald angel."

“Rachel, Balthazar,” Castiel repeated quietly, eyes growing distant again. “Anna, Hester, Inias, Uriel. My... My family.”

He went quiet after that, lost in thought, but Dean couldn’t blame him. If he had his dates right, Castiel hadn’t seen his family in close to three years, and he couldn’t even imagine what that was like for him or his family. He barely lasted six months without Sam, and he at least had the fortune of believing he could bring his brother back. What would it be like to never know what happened to your loved one, and be powerless to even help them?

He let Castiel have a moment, deciding to finish bandaging his wound. The lacerations didn’t require stitching, just a few butterfly bandages to help keep the wounds together. It didn’t take long to apply those, and it was as Dean was wrapping his wound up in gauze that Castiel suddenly tensed, looking back at him. He met the angel's confused gaze, only for his mind to go blank when Castiel murmured, “You are really here, aren't you?"

“Huh?” Dean said dumbly. Had the angel just said...?

“The lycanthrope _could_ see you, that was when I knew for sure,” Castiel explained, eyes wide as he stared at him. His brow creased then before he looked away, voice soft as he whispered, “But if you are real, then the rest... the rest isn’t a dream.”

 _Well, that isn’t worrisome at all_ , Dean thought, as he grew very, very worried. Had the angel spent this entire time wondering if he was real or not? If he was part of a dream? That was a disturbing thought, and Dean faltered, unsure what to say. “Well, as all my exes will tell you, you can’t dream up someone like me,” was probably not the reply warranted, but it was all he could manage.

The joke went flat again when Castiel just stared at him. Dean coughed, and looked away in embarrassment. “Am I…” he started, and then rethought what he was going to say. He couldn’t say _people,_  because people like werewolves and vampires had probably tried to eat Castiel. “Am I the first human you’ve seen in a while?”

“No,” the angel said quietly, and Dean jerked his head back in surprise.

“No?” he repeated. Castiel leaned back when Dean leaned in, heart pounding. “Are there other humans on this island? Angel, are there? Tell me, please. My brother might be among them.”

Castiel frowned, and he gave a slight shake of his head. “Humans are not released in groups,” he said slowly. “Humans are sent out as... Meat.”

Dean’s blood went cold, his heart stopping in his chest. “H-Humans specifically?” he asked, and then had to swallow down the taste of bile, before muttering sarcastically, “Oh, how nice of Dick.”

He had wondered, hadn’t he? What people were eating on an island that had no food on it? Dean had assumed any humans were eaten simply because they’d be defenseless … not that they were being let out _specifically_ for that reason. How poetic of Dick too, to feed humans to their former predators...

 _Wow_ , there wasn’t going to enough whiskey in the world if he ever survived this — if Sam wasn’t dead. And Dean couldn’t exactly shove that thought out of his mind anymore, or stop himself from seeing all the ways his brother could have died. Served on a platter for hungry werewolves, vampires, demons—

A strange feeling came over him with that thought, and Dean frowned slowly. It took him way back, to when he first stepped onto the island, after he had freed himself from that trap. He had come face-to-face with the angel then, and what had Castiel done? Gripped his hair and placed his blade against Dean’s neck … all the while boring his eyes into Dean’s, his cold, empty eyes only filled with one thing. Except that thing wasn’t an emptiness that could swallow Dean whole … He had seen it in the werewolf’s eyes too, and knew what it had been then.

It was _hunger_ …

Like it had back then, Dean’s heart stopped. Everything clicked into place like blood-soaked puzzle pieces.

He had a pistol trained on Castiel in an instant, the angel tensing as his gaze focused right on it. Dean felt a calm settle over him as he lifted to his feet, though he had to swallow down the taste of bile in his throat before he could ask the angel one question.

“Did you ... try to eat me?”


	11. Chapter 11

_Did you try to eat me._

It wasn’t a question. Not really, since Dean already knew the answer, but the way Castiel’s eyes jerked to his said everything. He could read the warring flight-or-fight instinct in the tension in the angel’s shoulders and wings, which was going to be an interesting experiment. The last time Dean had a weapon pointed at the angel, Castiel had merely kicked it out of his hand. But now that he already had his gun out, who had the faster draw? How _fast_ were angels, anyway?

It seemed he wouldn’t find out — Castiel’s eyes fell back to the gun, and he stared at it like it was a swaying cobra. Dean was almost disappointed — he wanted _so badly_ to shoot the angel, and the urge grew as the feeling of disgust and revulsion crawled up and down his skin. Had the angel just been biding his time, waiting for a weak moment to strike? Did he kill the werewolf because he wanted to keep the bulk of human flesh all to himself? Did he gain Dean’s trust so he wouldn’t fight this time when his throat was slit? 

Another wave of revulsion and disgust went through Dean. He was no strange to being preyed on, but it was different when it came to werewolves and vampires. They had no choice: werewolves were carnivores, and had to eat meat, human or otherwise; vampires’ diets consisted _only_ of blood, and it had to come from somewhere. Demons were almost sadistic when it came to eating humans — they had used it as a scare tactic during the war and _hell,_ it had _worked_. 

But _angels …_ Angels were supposed to be above instinct and nature, cruel or otherwise. Angels did not _eat_ people. 

But the utter disgust Dean felt about it all — the angel had tried to _eat him_ — didn't matter. Not really. There was only one thing that _did_ matter, his finger twitching against the trigger as he hissed, “Did you eat my brother, you son of a bitch?”

Castiel started, brow creasing as his eyes flicked back up to Dean’s. Dean didn’t give him a chance to answer though, screaming, “ _Did you eat my brother?!_ ”

“No,” the angel croaked, but Dean didn’t want to believe him. Not when he could so easily see it: Sam, his _baby brother,_ freeing himself from a snare trap, only to find an angel there waiting for him, sword in hand. Then Sam was dead, throat slit and chunks of flesh being ripped from his still twitching body; the angel gorging himself, blood staining his lips and neck and overcoat. And Dean could see Dick standing there too, eyes dark and nostrils flaring as he smirked.

_“There’s no such thing as monsters, Dean,”_ he said. _“We’re all just meat.”_

“I have not killed a human—” Castiel was saying, but Dean could barely hear him. His stomach was churning, vision blurring. Meat, meat, meat. They were all just _meat._ “Y-You were the first. It was the _hunger_ , I could not keep fighting _it_ —” 

Maybe it was six months overdue, or because of everything Dean had bottled up. Maybe it was Sam and his promise, or Dick’s words in the back of his mind. Or maybe it was because it was an angel — _the_ angel, his fucking _hero_ — out of all people, who had tried to eat him, and that alone was enough. 

Dean exploded.

“Then you should have starved!” he roared and, with the butt of the pistol, he struck Castiel with a brutal blow across the face. The angel’s head was thrown to the side, the flashlight he was holding slipping from his hand when he caught himself on before he fell over. Dean followed him, grabbing him by the collar of his coat to heave him up. Blood was dribbling from Castiel’s nose and down to his lips, and his jaw tightened when Dean shoved the muzzle of the gun under his throat. 

“Do you think that makes it okay?” he hissed, and Castiel’s eyes, pupils slitted, met his own. “Do you think that makes it excusable? Guess what! It doesn’t! You’re not one of them — you’re not a werewolf or a vampire, you’re a fucking angel! You’re a warrior! You’re supposed to protect people, not _eat_ them! We are _not_ meat!” 

Castiel didn’t reply, staring up at him with something akin to awe, as if Dean was saying something he had never heard before. Dean felt his skin crawl again, his grip tightening on Castiel’s collar. What was wrong with him? How could he have let himself become _this?_ How could he have let any of this happen?! “You should have stopped this — stopped Dick!” he cried, shaking Castiel once. “You won a goddamn war — why didn’t you bring your fierce, absolute terrifying wrath down on him? Hell, you have fucking wings, why didn’t you fly away and warn everyone?!” 

Of all things, that was what Castiel reacted to, an emotion Dean couldn’t name flashing in his eyes. “I-I cannot fly,” he whispered, so quietly Dean barely heard it. 

It was such a stupid, blatant lie that it made Dean snarl. “Bullshit,” he spat, but Castiel shook his head. 

“No,” he croaked out. “I cannot … I am unable to fly. They took my wings.” 

Dean frowned, confused; when Castiel started to pull away from him, he let him go. He kept his gun trained on him as the angel pushed to his feet with some effort and rose to his full height. His eyes never left Dean’s as he slowly unfurled his wings, spreading them out into the air. Dean’s gaze drifted up, following their path as the wings stretched to their full length, dark grey feathers hued blue in the moonlight. 

At least, what was left of them. 

Dean swallowed painfully, tasting bile in his throat again. It was like someone had chopped the Castiel’s wings in half, flight feathers missing from both ends, feathery digits that lifted into the sky like skeletal fingers the only parts remaining. The rest of his feathers were frayed or shredded, and patches of skin exposed along the bones of his wings glowing white. 

More than the Castiel’s cuts, scrapes, bruises, the scars on his chest, the sight of his wings hurt Dean the worst. Everything he had seen or read said how an angel’s wings were just as sacred as their bond with their host; how flight was the cornerstone of their cultural, societal and personal identity. 

But it was more than that for Dean: He had seen Castiel’s wings in their full glory, massive things with black, glossy feathers that reflected hues of every color of the rainbow when under the sun. He had seen Castiel in flight, diving through the air like a missile or propelling himself into the air with great swooshes of his wings. Dean had even touched them, when he first met Castiel — he could still remember how soft and smooth they were.

Castiel’s wings now … It was beyond mutilation. The image Dean had of Castiel — majestic, a hero — felt completely torn away, just as much as Castiel’s wings had been.

When Dean could no longer look at the angel’s wings anymore — which didn’t take long — he simply walked away. He didn’t know where he was going; he just knew he couldn’t look at the angel with his broken body and broken wings and not completely lose it. He needed to get away … except there was no real place to go — the furthest Dean could go was back to Castiel’s thicket. But even as safe as the angel had claimed it was, it didn’t change the fact that he was on an island run by a _monster_ , and the only hope was rescue was two days away. 

That might as well have been a lifetime.

It felt like the world was spinning, and Dean could barely hold on. He had no idea what to think. He had no idea what to feel. And he had no idea what to do. What could he even do in a place that had broken an _angel_? ( _His_ angel?) How was he supposed to save anyone? How was he supposed to save his brother? 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed, dragging one hand through his hair and pulling hard. There wasn’t enough pain in the world to keep the turmoil in his heart contained, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

_Oh God, Sammy,_ he thought. _What do I do? What do I do?_

* * *

When Dean returned, Castiel was where he had left him. He hadn’t moved except to tuck away his wings, but he did glance up when Dean reappeared. Dean hesitated when their eyes met, but he was the first to look away, limping to his bag and pushing past the pain in his knee to sit beside it again.

Inside the bag were the holsters he had taken from one of the demons, which Dean took first. He strapped them to his thighs, sliding both guns in. Next, he found the gauze he had left lying on the ground (he had dropped it when he pulled the gun on Castiel), along with some tape, and then rolled up his jeans as high as he could. The cold nipped at his skin as he wound the gauze and tape around his knee the best he could, hoping it would hold him up for as long as he needed it to. Inside the medical kit were packets of painkillers, which he took for the road, before setting the aside along with some additional medical supplies. Once he finished, he packed everything up and pulled the bag back on, before sliding the rifle strap over his shoulder. 

He had another handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and he used that to wrap up the items he had set aside. Once he heaved himself back to his feet, the supplies — some more bandages, antiseptic wipes, and the rest of the painkillers — were presented to Castiel. Castiel’s gaze shifted him to his hand, Dean swallowing before croaking out, “Get to the boat.” 

Castiel’s brow creased slightly in confusion, but Dean ignored it, saying, “Keep your wounds clean and dry the best you can, and try not to remove the bandages until you can see a doctor. If you get any chills or a fever, take the painkillers. They’ll help, but stay warm too.”

Castiel didn’t take the supplies right away, and Dean almost threw them at him. But slowly, the angel reached out, only to pause before he touched them. “What… What about you?” he asked, glancing up at him. 

Dean sucked in a deep breath before he answered. “I’m going to do what I came here to do: Kill Dick Roman,” he said. 

Castiel’s head shot up, eyes wide. “What?” 

Dean had to admit he was surprised at the utter terror that crossed Castiel’s face, and within a blink, the angel was right in front of him. Dean had to take a step back, but Castiel seemed to have no regard for personal space, crowding in and hissing urgently, “You _can’t._ ” 

Dean’s heart pounded, hand inching toward his pistol again. He didn’t want to admit he was afraid ... but he was definitely tense. “I can,” he said slowly. “I will. In the meantime, you need to be on that boat. You need to get off this island to go get help.” 

Castiel didn’t seem to be listening — he was growing frustrated, feathers bristling, furrow in his brow getting deeper. “The monster will _kill_ you,” he growled through bared teeth. 

That made Dean’s anger flare up again despite himself. Before he realized it, he found himself yelling again. "So what?! Everything is out to kill me, including you!” 

The moment it left his mouth, Dean regretted it, especially when Castiel started and took a step back. Unable to look at him anymore, Dean turned away, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

He did not know how to feel about Castiel. It was just so confusing. On one hand, he had saved him from the demons and the werewolf, and even now was trying to protect him. If he really meant Dean harm, he had plenty of opportunities to strike, none of which he had taken. On the other, the angel _had_ tried to eat him … The starving angel with his broken body and broken wings had tried to eat him, and Dean wondered if it wouldn’t have been for the best if he had succeeded. At least then, maybe he wouldn’t have signed the death warrants for everyone on this island, including his brother (if by some miracle Sam was still alive). 

But no. He needed to kill Dick. Really, it was the only thing he could do … He had no idea where to look for Sam, and there just wasn’t time to keep searching. Killing Dick was his best chance of saving Sam and anyone who was left, and getting them the hell off this island as fast as he could. 

But in case, he failed, he still had his back-up plan — if Castiel was at the boat, at least one of them could escape and bring back help. 

It wasn’t the best plan he had ever had, but hell, he was making it up as he went ever since he arrived. With a determined grunt, he started off once more, only for the Castiel to twist right in front of him again with another hiss of _no_. “Get out of the way,” Dean snarled, frustrated, but Castiel shook his head.

“You can’t—” he protested, but Dean cut him off.

“Angel, unless you have some way to prove to me my brother isn’t _dead_ , then you will get your feathery ass to the goddamn boat!” he snapped. “Do you understand?!”

Castiel leaned back, eyes widening, and this time he didn’t stop Dean when he pulled away again. Shaking his head, Dean stepped around him, only to pause when the angel weakly called out, “ _Dean._ ”

Castiel had gone very still, but his eyes met Dean’s when he turned to look at him. The angel's eyes were a little wild, breathing a little hard, but his voice was surprisingly calm.

“There may be a way,” he whispered.


	12. Chapter 12

Vampires.

The angel’s genius idea was to talk to the _vampires._

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ Dean had thought when he first agreed to the plan, and he kept thinking that as they made their way to the vampire nest. It was in the heart of the mountain, the route there an arduous hike with no clear path up. The one Castiel chose involved a lot more crossing of ledges and climbing over giant rocks than Dean would have liked, and really had no business attempting. Not with his bad knee and aching ribs, more than twenty pounds of gear, or in weather that was below freezing when he was sweating like hell.

Not when he should have gone after Dick Roman.

 _I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this,_ he thought again when he found himself braced between two rocks and a long way down, knee spasming painfully. His foot slipped a little and, as pebbles and dirt rained down the mountainside, his eyes shot upward with a curse. The new viewpoint meant he caught sight of Castiel, high above him, leaping from one rock to the next with an ease only an angel could possess. While it was hardly an unusual sight by now, Dean couldn’t help his flare of jealousy. _Stupid agile angels,_ he thought.

There was no slowing down for a rest, however. Dean looked out at the island when he heard a howl some distance away, but still close enough to make him feel a stab of panic. He wasn’t sure if the demons and hellhounds were hot on their trail or going after the vampires — he also knew it didn’t matter. But it didn’t help any when Castiel called out the obvious to Dean: “We must hurry.”

The angel wasn’t close enough to see his glare, but he had been keeping his distance for a while now. He had been quiet too, and every time Dean was close enough to make out his face, it looked like he was lost in thought. He had been that way ever since he presented his plan to Dean: Ask the vampires if they knew of any other humans on the island. “They know this place in a way I do not,” he had explained, not meeting Dean’s eyes at the time. “If your brother is here ... They will know.”

He wasn’t wrong: The vampires would know the island in a way that a human, angel or even a demon couldn’t — by _scent._ Their sense of smell was said to rival a shark’s, and Dean had no doubt they knew the odor of every tree, rock, and bush... and more importantly, who and what lived near them. Dean had asked for proof that Sam was alive, and the angel had given him the next best thing.

And maybe he was desperate. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight. _Or maybe I’m just stupid,_  Dean thought, as he heaved himself up and over a rock. But in that moment, despite all logic, he had allowed himself to believe: that he could still find Sam; that he could still _save_ him...

Since then however, he had had plenty of time to think about all the problems with Castiel’s plan. The glaringly obvious one being that if the vampires knew where Sam was, wouldn't they have gone after him? They had no problem with feeding on people as it was — and it wasn’t long ago they had no problem with killing their victims while they were at it. (Barely a lifetime ago!) And if there wasn’t any other food on this island — if humans were purposefully put on this island as _meat_ — what would have stopped the vampires from sucking Sam dry?

Dean cursed at that thought, and then cursed again. What was he doing? He had clearly lost his mind! It was bad enough he was following after the angel who had tried to eat him — and Dean hadn’t exactly confirmed Castiel wouldn’t try eating him again — but was he really about to go ask some vampires if they had killed his brother? If they said _yes..._

He couldn't even finish the thought: It made his stomach churn, and he had to swallow down bile. _But what if they don’t say yes?_ he found himself thinking feverishly. He could feel his hands shaking from where they were gripping the rock in front of him. _Sammy’s smart. He’d know how to avoid vampires. He could still be alive._

Except Sam wasn’t just avoiding vampires. He was avoiding werewolves, too. And demons. Maybe even angels! Not to mention Dick himself, who Dean really needed to go _kill_ , instead of confirming that his brother was probably dead.

But... if Sam _was_ alive, he needed to be protected...

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed, running a hand down his face. _What was he doing_? He had had a _plan._ A good plan. A plan that could help everyone — not just his brother. Was he really that selfish to throw away possibly the best option they all had for making off this island alive? If he killed Dick — like he should have done from the start — he could end this, once and for all…

But if he failed — _the monster will_ kill _you_ , he heard Castiel say in the back of his mind — he could lose Sam anyway ...

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed again, and then heaved himself onto the next rock. Yes, it seemed he was that selfish — and of course he was, that was why Sam had tried to stop him. _Promise me, Dean_ , his brother had said, but had Dean listened? No. And now here he was, about to go ask _vampires_ for their help, instead of doing the right thing.

And why did it have to be vampires? he wondered then. Why did he always have to turn to vampires when it came to Sam? This was a long way from when Dad didn’t come home when he said he would, and no matter what work Dean could scrounge up, it just wasn’t enough. Being tossed out onto the street or going without food just wasn’t something Dean could let happen, not with Sam, not when he was supposed to watch out for him. And that was where vampires came in, the ones who always lived on the nice side of town in fancy mansions ... who would pay a king’s ransom for the delicacy they considered human blood to be.

And Dean could remember vividly what it was like, the way the venom in their mouths left their prey sedated while they drank their fill… and with that bite came the hallucinations, and those were the _worst_ …

He shuddered, resisting the urge to rub at his wrists. He hated this. He hated all of this. Yet he continued to climb — over rocks and logs and dirt, past groves of trees and small caves, going so high Dean could faintly make out the sounds of the waterfall that was at the mountain's center — and his bad mood grew steadily darker the further he went up. With it, the ache in his knee grew and grew too, until it started spasming again and he had to stop. Dean slumped against a rock, gritting his teeth through the wave of pain; frustration got the better of him, and he looked up at Castiel, who had paused to wait for him.

“Is this the _only_ way to the nest?” he asked, not even caring if it sounded like he was whining.

Castiel looked down at him, his thoughtful expression fading. “No,” he said.

Since he asked it sarcastically, for a long moment Dean thought the angel was kidding. He waited for the punchline, but when Castiel offered nothing else, he forced himself to take a deep breath before grinding out, “So we’re going this way _why_?”

If Castiel heard Dean’s anger, it wasn’t betrayed in his reply. "It is the safest way,” he explained, which made Dean look down the mountainside. He was fucking kidding, right?

“How is this the safe way?” he asked when he turned back to the angel. Castiel cocked his head at him.

“We are downwind of the nest,” he explained. “We should be able to approach without the vampirs knowing we are here.”

 _Without the vampires knowing we’re here?_ Dean frowned, confused. That didn’t make sense. “Uh… Don’t we want them to know them we’re coming?”

“No,” Castiel said, returning his frown like Dean was five and speaking gibberish. "If they know we are coming ... they will try to kill us."

Dean, reaching for the ridge of the next rock, froze at that. "What?" he croaked out, not sure if he heard the angel right.

"They would ambush us," Castiel continued impassively, as if they were talking about the weather. He glanced up above him, brow creasing slightly. "It is better if we have catch them off-guard."

The full impact of what he was saying finally hit Dean. “ _What?!_ ” he cried without thinking. When it echoed, he cringed (even Castiel was startled, his wings lifting slightly), and he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “They’re going to try to kill us?!”

"Yes … we are prey to them," Castiel said slowly. That was all he offered, like it wasn't a big deal, like Dean should have expected that the vampires would attack them. And maybe he should have, but he had apparently missed the fucking memo.

“But you—” he began, but then stopped. It wasn’t like Castiel had said they could just walk right up to a nest and start talking with the locals. You couldn’t even do that in the real world, not without at least a sizable police presence right behind you. But Castiel also hadn’t said _they would try to kill them_ — and after going on and on how Dick would kill him, it seemed like he _would_ mention that?! “Are they going to try to kill us even if we catch them off-guard?”

“Yes,” Castiel said with one short nod. There was an odd look in his eyes Dean couldn’t figure out. “But I will hold them off long enough for you to be able to speak.”

That had to go through Dean’s brain twice. He would _hold them off_? What the fuck did that even mean? But before he could ask, Castiel looked up at the sound of another howl and then prompted Dean to hurry. When he disappeared from view, Dean’s heart leaped, and he quickly clambered up the rest of the rocks, crying, “Angel, Angel, wait a minute! This sounds kind of dangerous!”

“I will protect you. Do not be concerned,” Castiel replied as Dean crested the last rock, and stepped onto level ground, trees on every side of them. He had to pause at the angel's workds, staring at him. _Don’t be concerned?_ What was he supposed to be? Happy? Thrilled? Grateful? While he stammered for words, Castiel moved toward a grove of trees that was right ahead of them. Dean felt another stab of panic and limped after him.

“I don’t think I can help being concerned, Angel,” Dean protested in between pants as he caught up to Castiel. “You just told me you were going to _hold off_ a bunch of vampires. Not to discredit your angel cred, but you could barely hold off the werewolf, and you told me you were hungry like three hours ago—”

“If I fall, I will fall,” Castiel interrupted, not looking at Dean. “But you will have your chance to speak to them.”

Dean sputtered. Now they were talking about _dying_? How had they come to this? “W-Waitaminute,” he stammered. “No. No! You can’t die!”

Castiel stopped in his tracks, and Dean only barely managed not to run right into him. He backed up when the angel turned to face him. The look from before was gone, replaced by Castiel’s confusion. “Aren’t I … an angel?” he asked slowly, and Dean frowned. “Aren’t I supposed to protect people?”

It was surreal to have his own words thrown back at him in the form of an honest question. Had Castiel been thinking about that all this time? “Yes,” Dean whispered. “But you can’t _die_.”

Castiel frowned at that, and took a step forward to peer up at him. “But is that not ... what a warrior does?” he asked, “Do they not die for what they believe in?”

That sent a chill down Dean’s spine, his throat closing up. The angel … _believed in him?_

No. No. No. No. He was weak. He was a coward. He was suicidal. He had already gotten who-knew-how-many people killed, and he was going to get the rest of them killed because he couldn’t let go of his brother. Castiel couldn’t believe in him and could _not_ die for him. Despite everything — Castiel being what he was; trying to eat him — he was _Castiel._ A  _hero_. Dean's hero! “You can’t die for me. You can’t believe in me,” he protested, shaking his head.

Castiel cocked his head at him, frowning. “Why?” he asked, and then looked him over. “You are … _you_. You know my name. You are willing to fight the monster. I… I _have_ to believe in you.”

Dean swallowed, very tense. He did not like this. He did not like this at all. “Why?” he whispered. Why did Castiel have to believe in him?

“I …” Castiel hesitated, breathing quickening, and his eyes took on that wild glaze Dean had seen before. It seemed like he was struggling with something; finding the words maybe, and he turned that desperate look to Dean. “I… do not want to be _this_ anymore,” he stressed, his wings rustling, and Dean saw his hands curl into fists. “I do not want to be—”

He cut off abruptly then, twisting his head around to look behind him. Dean barely had time to react when Castiel whipped back around, eyes wide.

“They’re here,” he whispered.

Dean stiffened, his eyes darting instinctively to the trees, rocks and shadows. They revealed nothing, but he might as well have been blind and deaf for all the good his eyes and ears were going to do him against _vampires._ With a curse, he swung his rifle up, sweeping it around to where Castiel was looking.

“Where are they?” he hissed to Castiel, but then looked over when a feminine voice answered him.

“Here.”


	13. Chapter 13

Dean had only a second to look at vampire who seemed to materialize out of the shadows. Castiel was in front of him in the next moment, using his wings to herd Dean back up against a tree. Dean grunted as he got a face full of feathers, and he frantically shoved them away. Stupid angel! He needed room to fucking _aim—_

“Did we catch you off-guard?” the vampire mocked, and Dean stiffened, looking over at her. In between Castiel’s wings, he could see her, standing in the shadows of a rocky outcropping. But she wasn’t the only one visible: Dean’s attention was caught by shadows moving to his left, sleek like a shark’s fin breaking the ocean surface. Castiel was looking toward his right, and Dean glanced over as well, seeing a gleam of glowing eyes and the flash of fangs before they too melted into the darkness.

That was all Dean could make out, and he glanced from tree to tree, searching for other movement. How many vampires were there? Five? Ten? _Fuck,_ had he been so stupid not to ask beforehand?

Not that it mattered — they were surrounded. Towering rocks covered one side, trees hiding vampires the other, and the only exit was yards away... and that lead straight to a literal drop off a cliff.

They were trapped. Trapped with some of the best damn hunters in the world around them, armed with claws, teeth and a bite that could knock out something three times their size. Vampires were masters of stealth and stalking — and they were fast too — and had night vision that was as good as a demon’s. But it was how well they worked together that made them so dangerous, almost telepathic in how coordinated they could be. Dean remembered boot camp, watching fully armed squads get taken down by a just a few vampires who never once exchanged words on how they'd attack.

Even with an angel at his side, Dean did not like his odds facing a nest. With a healthy, fully flighted, well-fed angel, no problem, but Castiel...?

Yet, the vampires didn’t attack.

Dean looked around in surprise, heart in his throat — what were they waiting for? he wondered — and then glanced over when the first vampire moved. She had emerged from the shadows, and was headed toward them, moving with the sleekness her kind was known for.

For how human she looked, their differences immediately stood out: mainly, her large, pointed ears, her iridescent eyes, the teeth. Her mane of hair had been pulled into a braid, skin dark as the shadows themselves. Unlike Castiel and the werewolf, she was fully clothed, her lean frame swamped under a shirt and in a pair of the demon's military fatigues. Like Castiel and the werewolf, she too was littered with white scars and bite marks, the most prominent scarring on her face. Five slashes traveled across her cheeks and nose and over her left eye, which had sealed shut. Her right eye was fine, black pupil blown against an iridescent green sclera, and it swung between the two of them.

“So it a human under all that werewolf blood,” she said as she approached, and Dean's mind went blank as his eyes fell down to his clothes. Had he... Had he just walk into a nest covered in _blood_? The vampire stopped before them, hand falling to her hip as she looked from him to Castiel. “The monster, demons, the dogs and now an angel and a human in my territory. This week is just full of surprises.”

Dean knew more about vampire hierarchy than he would have ever liked, and there was no doubt she was the nest matriarch. She was the one who gave the orders then, and the one he would _not_ want to piss off so she didn't sic the whole nest on them. “We’re just here to talk,” he said carefully, letting go of his rifle long enough to hold up his hands. The vampire’s eye flicked back to him.

“So I've overheard,” she replied, and Dean's hands dropped back to his rifle. Shit, how _much_ had they overheard? How long had the vampires been watching them?

“And it does make me wonder what he must have said to earn your protection, Angel,” she continued, as she looked back at Castiel. “And, even more surprisingly, your voice. I didn’t even know you _could_ speak. I had always assumed the demons tore out your tongue like they had your wings.”

Dean could only wonder what she meant by earning Castiel’s voice — but that was forgotten when she mentioned Castiel’s wings. The angel tensed too, said wings tightening against his back and his shoulders going rigid. _She doesn’t mean that literally, does she?_ Dean wondered, not wanting to imagine demons ripping feather after feather off Castiel. (Though now that he was thinking it, he could so easily see it...)

He looked back when the vampire moved closer, her attention back on him. “So, human… what could you possibly have to say to me?” she drawled, sounding bored. Her nostrils flared then and she looked him up and down once. “Please tell me you didn’t try talking to the werewolf too. By the amount of its blood reeking off you, I can’t imagine that went well.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to tense, his grip tightening on his rifle as he forced himself not to look down at his bloody clothes again. “What do you care?” he heard himself say from far away. The vampire grinned, all her fangs revealed.

“I really don’t. It just seems a waste of perfectly good blood.”

A vampire boiling someone’s worth down to their blood was nothing new, but this time it struck a little too close to home. Dean remembered the werewolf — her emaciated body covered in scars and bite marks; a testament to everything she been put through— and how she had come back, just briefly. Long enough to probably realize she was dying; long enough to be scared by that. And it all happened to her because Dick thought she was no better than meat.

For the vampire to _dismiss_ her for the same reasons … It made Dean see red.

“She was a person, you bloodsucking _bi_ —” he hissed and then grunted when Castiel’s arm shot out, stopping him from stepping forward and yelling that to her with a gun in her face. The angel more or less shoved him back against the tree too, Dean cursing and glaring at him.

The vampire let out a sound that could have been a laugh. “I wouldn’t do that, human,” she warned, baring her fangs in a grin. “The angel’s holding us off, but one step out of his reach, and you’re ours. And for someone so _adamant_ the angel not die protecting you, that’s exactly what will happen if we grab you.”

Dean froze — no, he didn’t want that to happen, and fuck, she sounded pretty damn confident she _could_ take on Castiel — while the vampire looked back at the angel. “Not that we want to kill you, angel,” she said, and then dipped her head and shoulders so she had to look up at him. She started to move toward him slowly, her voice lowering, almost gentle then. “Not after everything we’ve been through.”

That made Dean frown, and he glanced between the two of them. Wait a minute … Did they have some sort of relationship? They obviously knew each other — Castiel had known where to the nest was, and they had apparently been together before they were put out on the island. But ... were they _friends?_

They didn’t look like friends, not with the way Castiel was glaring down at her. (And she had basically threatened his life, too.) The vampire went on however, voice still soft, though it turned into a growl at the end. “Not over a _human,_ ” she sneered.

Dean felt a stab of anger, grip tightening on his rifle. If she and the angel were friends or not, he didn’t know, but this vampire was _not_ dismissing him too. “That human is _armed_ ,” he reminded her, and she glanced back at him.

“So you are,” she muttered, sounding anything but impressed. She rose back to her full height, hand falling back to her hip again. “But I should remind you that we outnumber you, and you are _not_ trying to get the angel killed?”

As Dean glanced around at the trees, she took a step back, and then spread her arms wide. “But, by all means, human, call my bluff,” she said, fangs on show again when she grinned. “Just step away from the angel and take your shot.”

Dean swallowed. He _would_ have to step away from Castiel to take the shot … and then the other vampires would grab him, Castiel would fight to save him, and they’d both die. Fuck, she had called _his_ bluff, and the anger that went through him at that — and the sight of her her smirk when he didn’t move — made him want to shoot anyway, but Castiel ended that for both of them.

His blade slid into his hand, and the vampire glanced down at it, her smirk fading. It was clearly enough of a threat, as she looked up at the angel, and then dipped her head, acquiescing. When she backed off, Dean didn’t even bother hiding the smarmy grin he knew was on his face. _Talk a big game, don’t you?_ he thought darkly. _Well, take that._

The feeling didn’t last long. “So, human willing to stand up to the monster,” she drawled again, pacing the edges of the clearing. “Will you be doing that behind the angel’s back as well?”

Dean twitched, and the vampire glanced over him. “Is that why you’re here? Are you organizing a coup?”

If he was, he wouldn’t have her be part of it, Dean grumbled to himself. This was the moment he had been waiting for though; the entire reason he came. It took a bit to swallow his pride — _this is for Sam,_ he reminded himself — but he managed. “I’m here for information.”

She paused in place, her expression unreadable when she looked at him. “Information,” she repeated.

“Yeah.” Dean again had to swallow his pride, and it was a little harder this time. She was an underfed vampire, he kept thinking, and that probably meant the entire nest was too. It evened things up some, didn’t it? “I’m looking for something,” he said instead. “In exchange, I have something to offer you.”

The vampire lifted her eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest as she turned to face him. “And I assume you don’t mean your blood.”

Oh, how he wanted to be petty then, to leverage Castiel’s presence and lord it over her. _I mean your life,_ he wanted to say, and only just managed to hold off. _For Sam,_ he reminded himself again. “Better than that,” he told her, forcing a smirk.

“It must be, if it earned you the angel’s protection,” the vampire replied, and then looked over at Castiel. “Why is that, angel? What earns a _human_ your protection?”

Though Dean hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to avoid pissing her off, her dislike of humans seemed … pronounced. Even for a vampire, who didn’t like humans in general. (And vice versa.) But it was like she thought it was _beneath_ Castiel to protect him … Why?

Castiel answered her however, Dean jumping a little when he heard his voice. “He…” the angel said slowly. “He can help us.”

“Help us? _Help_ us?” The vampire barked out what could have been a laugh, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she looked back at Dean. “So, human, tell me: How will you _help us_?”

If looks could kill, Dean would have been dead twice over at that point. But this was his bargaining chip, and damn if it wasn’t a good one. He let go of his rifle again, the confidence making him stand tall. “I have a way off this island,” he declared proudly.

The vampire had no reaction. She just stared at him, her expression blank. “A way off the island,” she said after a long moment, voice giving nothing away. Not surprise, or disbelief, or even outrage because she didn’t believe him ... Which had Dean a little worried that she _wasn't_ reacting. Instead, she looked to Castiel, her eye narrowing. “Is that what he told you, Angel? And you believe him?”

“Yes,” Castiel whispered.

It wasn’t the most ringing endorsement Dean had ever had, but he figured it’d have to count for something. The last thing he expected however was for the vampire to give Castiel a pitying look as she started to shake her head.

“Oh, Angel,” she murmured as she approached them again, her eye never leaving Castiel’s. “Look at you. The monster would be _so_ disappointed in you.”

Dean felt more than saw Castiel go rigid, mostly because he himself was staring at the vampire in disbelief. Had she just _said …_ “ _What?”_ he sputtered, shaking his head because he had _had_ to not have heard her right. “Who gives a shit what _he_ thinks? He trapped you on this island! He hunts you like animals!”

The vampire paused, and gave him a look that clearly said she thought he was an idiot. “Human, we _are_ animals,” she said, hand falling to her hip again. “That’s the point.”

Castiel did not like that either, growing so tense Dean thought he might break. He glanced worriedly at the angel, and then turned back to the vampire. “ _What_ point? That you’re animals?” he snapped. She couldn’t mean that. She couldn’t _think_ that.

The vampire chuckled darkly, shaking her head again. “You’re a human, and since you don’t get the twenty-cent tour like we do, let me explain how this island works,” she muttered, and then started walking toward him. “You: Meat. Us: Meat. Of course, there is a natural order to it all: we eat you, the monster eats us. And the cycle goes on and on.”

Dean felt his stomach drop. He … _ate them?_ Dick _ate_ them? Oh god, he was going to be sick … But she couldn’t be saying what he thought she was saying. She _couldn’t_. “And you _accept_ that?” he asked, perplexed. She shrugged with a smirk.

“What can I say? The monster is quite persuasive about his point of view.”

Dean frowned at that. “What point of view?”

“That humanity has weakened us,” she replied, and Dean frowned again. _What_? She stopped before him, folding her arms and shaking her head again. “That we’ve traded our instincts for easy meals; let ourselves be swayed by shots and pills and bags of blood. We let you convince us that we were more than our basic instincts. But, in reality, once you strip that away — our titles, our social statuses, our education, our _humanity_ — we’re all just animals underneath. We’re all just _meat_.”

Dick’s words coming out of her mouth chilled Dean to the core. But where it struck him dumb, Castiel twitched violently, his wings rustling slightly. The vampire glanced over at him, arms falling back to her sides before she started to pace in front of them.

“Of course, being stripped of our humanity isn’t easy,” she went on, her eye on Castiel again. “So the monster has to break us down piece by piece. Remind us what we are, day-in and day-out. There’s the torture ... the confinement ... having to smell the weak die around us. And what they did to you, Angel: Your wings, keeping you tied down in the dark ... the way the demons went after you over and over and _over_ again.”

God, what had they _done_ to him? Dean thought as he looked over at Castiel. The angel’s knuckles were white, and he didn’t look like he was breathing. He just stared at the vampire, who leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But the worse part is the hunger, isn’t it?” she asked, and Castiel twitched again. “It never goes away, and it’s _always_ there, and there’s never enough to fill it. It’s all you think about. It consumes you, no matter how much you consume for it.”

Dean frowned. Now what was she talking about? he thought, but he didn’t have much time to wonder. It was then he noticed another set of eyes were watching them: One of the other vampires had emerged from the shadows, a tall but thin male with a set of scars on his head that made Dean cringe just looking at them. But his fangs and hungry eyes meant Dean didn’t feel sorry for him for too long. There was movement to his left, too, and Dean looked over. The vampire there froze, Dean seeing her iridescent yellow eyes and black mane before she dipped back into the shadows.

 _They’re hunting us,_ Dean realized, heart leaping in panic. The vampires were getting closer and closer, but Castiel wasn’t reacting at all. His entire focus was on the matriarch, who was still talking to him. “This human?” she was saying, voice gentle again. “Don’t believe in him. They’re why we’re here in the first place.”

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought. If she was distracting Castiel, it was working. “This isn’t a trick,” he pissed, glancing at each vampire before looking at the matriarch. “I _have_ a way off this island.”

She looked back at him, and the anger on her face made Dean pause. She was _livid_ , and she turned on him, fangs bared. “Do you really think you’re the first human that’s promised us a way off this island?” she hissed, and Dean tensed. What? She shook her head again, her tone becoming mocking. “I’ve heard it all, human: _Oh, if only we work together, the monster can’t take us all on. We can sneak onto the compound, and steal a boat before they even realize we’re there.”_

Was she talking about Sam? Dean wondered, his stomach dropping. Oh god, she was talking about Sam, wasn’t she? “I’ve watched too many of my kind fall for that already,” the vampire sneered. “I will _not_ do the same.”

 _Oh_ _son of a bitch,_ Dean thought, glancing over at the other vampires again. The man had crept closer, and the other female — a teenager, no less — had appeared again too, not even bothering to hide when Dean looked at her. They were so damn close that Dean didn't think it would matter if he stayed behind Castiel's back. They would snatch him before Castiel could even react...

Heart pounding, he turned back to the matriarch. He had to make her believe him, or he and Castiel weren’t going to get out of this _alive_. “No, I have a way off this island. I can help you. I can _save_ you,” he hissed frantically, and the vampire barked out a laugh.

“Oh, human, we’re _animals_ ,” she said, boring her gaze into his own. “We _can’t_ be saved.”

Castiel tensed at that, sucking in a sharp breath. Dean glanced over, seeing the angel’s brow creased, and his eyes wide. He looked like he had been _hit_ , Dean seeing his wings trembling and his hands clench into fists. _What is it?_ Dean thought at him, confused, almost reaching out to touch him. But the matriarch had noticed too, and she turned back to him, voice gentle once more.

“Angel, don’t worry,” she murmured. “There’s a peace to it, if you stop fighting it.”

Dean frowned. There was something familiar to that, but he couldn’t remember why. He didn’t have time to remember what it was from, freezing when he heard what the matriarch said next.

“He can help us in another way, can’t he?” she said to the angel. “I need the human. We _both_ need the human. But we only need the blood. The rest… ”

 _Oh shit,_ Dean thought, and that feeling grew when Castiel didn’t contradict the vampire’s words. The vampire was pressed in, her eye never leaving Castiel’s. “It’s been _days_ since we ate, and I know it’s been the same for you. I know you’re starving. It’s in your eyes. It’s all you can think about. Let’s have one more meal, Angel, _before_ the monster comes for us.”

Dean swallowed, but when Castiel glanced at him, his blood went cold. The angel’s pupils slitte slitted, his eyes losing all emotion except for one. Dean couldn’t even curse when he recognized the look, having seen it already before on the angel’s face.

It was _hunger_ , so palpable that Dean could have touched it, an abyss that could swallow him whole, and he knew what Castiel was seeing when he looked at him.

 _Meat_.

His heart leapt, Dean taking a step away from him without thinking.

And that was when the vampires struck.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** _Heavily implied_ child abuse/endangerment.

Dean didn’t even have time to blink, let alone aim or shoot. A hand clamped around his mouth like a vice, his rifle slipping from his grip as his arm was wrenched up against his back. It made him see stars, and it was in that moment the vampire twisted his neck to the side and stabbed fangs right in.

It burned like hell, but the drugging effect of the vampire’s venom was instantaneous, everything around Dean slowing. His vision blurred and the world spun; colors bled together, and he could feel his body want to do nothing more than relax and go limp.

 _No,_ he thought frantically, struggling against that overwhelming feeling, only for it to become that much harder when the hallucinations started.

He saw Sam first, appearing on a nearby log. His brother was looking over at Jess playing with the twins by the trees, a small but sad smile on his face. Then he turned to look at him and, as Dean watched, his skin grew pale and blood began to bubble up on his lips. _Promise me, Dean_ , he whispered.

 _No, it’s not real_ , Dean told himself, but it didn’t stop his heart from leaping. He cursed at himself, reminding himself he needed to _calm down:_ panicking would just make the venom go through him that much faster. He forced himself to concentrate instead, focusing everything he had on fighting the effects of the drug. His vision came back briefly, and he saw the vampires again, the teenage girl now at the matriarch’s side. They, along with Castiel, looked on, Dean noticing his feet bumping against the dirt as he was dragged backwards. That kind of movement should have been hell on his knee … And when he realized he could no longer feel the pain from it or the teeth in his neck, it finally hit Dean what was happening.

Oh God, they were going to _eat him. They were going to eat him._

 _“Take care of yourself, Dean,”_ Jess said to him as he was dragged past her, the twins looking up at him sadly. Dean would have laughed if he could — he had really taken care of himself, hadn’t he? — or maybe he would have just cried. (Was the last thing he would see be Jess and Sam's kids?) Except soon he wouldn’t feel anything at all, and wouldn’t even be able to care that he couldn’t, not with how the venom worked. Eventually it would knock him unconscious, but unlike all the times he had done this before, there was no waking up this round.

Even if the vampires didn’t completely drain him of blood, there was still an angel out there waiting for the rest of him.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

But as terrifying as that was — and it was, fuck, _he was going to be protein-rich, whiskey-flavored smoothie_ — there was something that scared him more. Bobby’s boat _was_ coming, and if there was no one there to meet it … if Dick killed everyone in the meantime … _everyone_ would die. No one would get off and tell the world what was happening here. Sam, if he was even alive, would be stuck here forever. Dean couldn’t let that happen. He _couldn’t_.

 _Castiel._ Dean looked over to where the angel was watching him, face emotionless. As far gone as he was, he was Dean’s only hope. He needed Castiel on that boat; the angel _had_ to be on that _boat_ —

“A-Angel!" he cried, but he wasn’t sure if anything came out. He couldn’t feel his mouth or even his lips moving, but he tried again. “Angel!”

If Castiel heard him, he didn’t show it. The vampire pulled him further and further away, Dean’s head becoming heavy, his eyes starting to drift shut. _No,_ he thought again, pushing back against that feeling, but it was _so hard_. His vision was starting to go dark around the edges, and he could hear gunfire and distant explosions; his dad yelling at him: _Watch out for Sammy; Dean, take your brother and go!_

Except Sammy wouldn’t budge from the log — still whispering _Promise me, Dean, promise me_ — and the vampires’ faces were changing, noses and teeth lengthening, eyes burning red. When they fell to their hands and knees and were suddenly hellhounds, Dean panicked.

 _No, no, no,_ he thought frantically, and then looked back at Castiel. There were two of them now: Castiel, scars white in the moonlight and gray wings, blue eyes empty; Castiel, with his great black wings and silver-and-blue armor, and kind blue eyes. It was the latter Dean called out for, with every ounce of willpower he had left.

“ _Castiel!_ ”

That, the angel reacted to. The other Castiel vanished; Dean saw the angel’s eyes widen, his wings flaring out. His lips moved, Dean hearing him say from far away, “ _No_.”

The world spun again as the vampire holding Dean jolted to a stop. The weight in Dean’s head lessened some when the vampire stopped biting, fangs scraping against his neck when he pulled away. The other two looked over at Castiel as he stepped forward, shaking his head. “Let him go,” he said, his voice echoing in Dean’s ears. “You have to let him go.”

Dean’s vision cleared a little, and he could see the matriarch looking from him, and then back at the angel. “No,” she said, and Castiel’s wings flared. In surprise or protest, Dean didn’t know.

“He knows my name,” Castiel replied, Dean hearing the distress in his voice. “He knows who I am. You must let him go!”

The matriarch tensed, Dean seeing her bare her teeth. “No,” she hissed, and Castiel’s wings flared out again, remaining outstretched. The feathers on them bristled, and a gleam of silver appeared in his hand as he rose to his full height. Both the vampires were tense now, and Dean could feel the heart of the vampire holding him start to pound, sounding like a drumbeat.

“Let him go,” Castiel said coldly, and with his wings out and the sword now in his hand, he looked as terrifying as he sounded.

Any other creature would have got the hell of Dodge instead of facing an angel, so Dean had to give the matriarch credit when she didn’t even flinch. She rose to her full height as well, claws flexing at her side as she snarled, “ _No_.”

Castiel moved then, Dean seeing what looked like a shooting star fire straight toward him. Then the vampire holding him let a roar of pain, dropping him. As Dean slipped from his grasp, he had the briefest glimpse of a silver blade sticking out of the vampire’s hand. That, along with the other two vampires rushing Castiel, were the last things he saw before he fell down a hill.

He hit every rock, bush and sapling on his way down, and came to a stop when he slid sideways into a tree trunk. It wasn’t until he hit the tree that he felt any of it, ribs and knee sending spikes of pain shooting up his body. It was only a good thing, though — a sign the venom was wearing off. The world spun wildly as Dean concentrated on moving his body, feeling his fingers twitch against dirt and snow. _On your feet, soldier,_ he thought over and over, imagining his limbs moving and working. He could hear the sounds of fighting up the hill grow louder, and that spurred him on, knowing Castiel might need his help. _On your feet—_

When he heard the tiniest of whimpers, it made him pause. His eyes sought the source, and when he found it, his heart stopped.

Huddled underneath a rocky overhang and a mess of tree roots, were two children. The smaller, a young boy, couldn’t have been more than two or three; the oldest, a girl who was maybe ten or eleven. Their hair was wild, both swamped in dirt-streaked shirts several sizes too big on them and tied to their bodies by strips of cloth and belts. They stared at Dean fearfully, the older child glancing from him, up to the hill and then at the younger one, before turning back to Dean. He could see the decision the moment the girl reached it, pushing the little boy behind her as she took a step forward and bared her fangs at Dean with a loud hiss.

Dean could only stare.

_There were children on this island._

There was a cry of pain and a _thump_ sound _,_ Dean looking over in time to see one of the vampire fly from off the hill. It was the matriarch, and she hit the ground hard, the children letting out cries while she tumbled over twice. She pushed up on her elbows, her face smeared with blood from a cut on her head. When she noticed Dean, she tensed, glancing once in the direction of the children. Dean saw a glimmer of fear, before she snarled at him and pushed to her feet.

She didn’t get far however, Castiel landing right on top of her and smashing her back to the ground. His wings swayed in the air, blood whipping off his blade as he spun it forward in his hand. He rose it up high in the air, and Dean’s heart leaped, knowing what he was going to do. Along with the children’s cries, he yelled, “ _Castiel._ _Don’t!_ ”

Castiel froze, the sword halting a hair’s length from the back of the vampire’s neck. He looked over at Dean, as did a surprised matriarch, but both didn’t look long. Dean glanced over when he heard a commotion from the hill, the other vampires scrambling down toward them.

They were splattered with blood, the teenager’s arm swaying oddly at her side as she hopped and slid her way down. The male was right behind her, a laceration on his bare chest leaving red streaks down his torso like a painting gone wrong. When they made it down, they threw themselves in front of the children, shielding them from view.

“Get out of here!” the matriarch barked at the others as Castiel turned to face them, keeping her pinned down with his foot. The vampires didn’t move, bravely standing their ground … though Dean wasn’t sure how they were still _standing_. The girl swayed unsteadily on her feet, barely containing her wince of pain whenever her arm moved. The male’s chest was heaving, and he was turning pale, probably from blood loss. The children peered out fearfully from behind their legs, the sight of which made Dean’s heart break.

It was the saddest standoff he had ever seen, but not because of the vampires or Castiel. He looked between them — all of them starving, emaciated, bloody, dirty, covered in scars and wounds — and swallowed around the lump in his throat. This was who Dick hunted? he thought. This was who he tortured and starved? Starving vampires? Broken angels? _Children?_

“No,” he croaked, and they all looked at him. He could barely speak, but anger was a hell of a motivator, and his voice grew stronger. “No. No. No. Enough. No more. _No more_.”

The look of confusion and disbelief that crossed the vampires’ faces would have been hilarious under any other circumstances. Except Dean was not in a laughing mood, his focus on getting back to his feet. His limbs were still largely not responsive though, his body shaking violently as he pushed up on his arms. The world spun again, but Dean kept going, reaching up the tree for something to grab onto. Castiel stepped in then, close enough that he could dip in and grab Dean’s arm to help pull him up. Dean was grateful for small mercies, the angel’s strong enough to hold him until he could find his feet. He sagged against the tree trunk, his legs still shaking but holding his weight. It was good enough, and he sucked in a breath of air before he turned back to Castiel.

“L-Let her go,” he croaked, Castiel frowning while the matriarch looked surprised. When the angel did as told, stepping off her, Dean looked down at her next. “Get back to your family.”

She hesitated, staring up at him, clearly wondering if it was a trick. But when she realized it wasn’t, she struggled to her feet, and then walked backwards toward the others. Once they were reunited, Dean could see the collective relief they all felt — the male touching her arm lightly; the teenager looking up at her with what could have been a relieved smile — even though they were instantly on alert again. Dean couldn’t blame though, but he figured they realized soon enough he wasn’t a threat (and they probably weren’t stupid enough to attack again, not with Castiel watching them like a hawk).

Sweat and blood dripped down his face and neck, while Dean took several deep breaths, each one visible in the cold air. The effects of the venom were still fading, but the aches and pains of his body were coming back to him, leaving him feeling exhausted. But he couldn’t just blame it on the vampires: it was _everything_. It seemed almost surreal to realize he hadn’t even been on the island for a full twenty-four hours … it felt like a hundred lifetimes.

And if it felt like that to him, what did it feel like to Castiel and the vampires, who had been here for _years?_

He thought of Castiel, the way he desperately looked at Dean, and said, _I … do not want to be_ this _anymore._ The way he had come back when Dean had yelled his name.

He thought of the matriarch, her snarl of _We can’t be saved,_ but the fear in her eye when she had thought the children were in danger.

He thought of Dick. _We’re all just meat._

Dean felt his fists clench at his side.

Whatever it was they felt, he thought, like hell was he going to let them keep feeling it.

“You, and you,” Dean said as he looked from Castiel to the vampires. “ _All of you_. You’re people. _People._ With _families_ and homes, and people who would give _anything_ to have you back. You are not animals. You are not fucking _meat_.”

They just stared at him blankly, and Dean sucked in another deep breath. He had never been one for speeches, but he was good at winging pretty much anything so he went with it. “Look, I ain’t gonna pretend I know what any of you have been through on this island. But what I do know is that there is a man named Dick Roman that abducted you — abducted _a lot_ of people — and brought you to this godforsaken place. And he tortured you and starved you and hunted you — apparently eats you too! — and … Hell, I don’t know about you, but that just rings of psychopathic _nutcase_ to me, and certainly not someone you should listen to about anything.”

He managed to wave his arm while making that point, but it left him a little dizzy, and he slumped back against the tree. Castiel’s expression grew worried, while the matriarch lifted an eyebrow, but the spell passed quickly. He had enough time to gather his thoughts, licking his lips before he said, “I know… I know he’s convinced all of you that you’re just animals with the whole ‘we’re all just meat’ thing, but you’re not. Deep down, you know that. Deep down, you still believe that.”

Dean noticed Castiel had gone very still, staring at him with that awed look again. The matriarch, however, sneered. "And what do you know of what I believe?" she growled.

He looked back at her, shaking his head. "I know you took on an _angel_ for them, so they could have something to eat," he said. He meant the kids, but in a way, it was the entire nest too: She _was_ their leader. "You don't do that if you think they're nothing."

Her sneer faded at that and, as Dean watched, the other vampires looked around at each other. The teenage female and young girl exchanged glances, and then looked up at the male, before they turned to the matriarch. Her expression grew thoughtful as she studied Dean — he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and hell he wouldn’t blame her if she thought he was full of crap.

But for the children’s sake — hell, for her entire nest’s sake — he kept trying.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” he said, spreading his hands out at her. “But I _do_ have a way off this island. I wasn’t released like you guys — I came to this island on my own. Dick wasn’t expecting me to show up, and there’s no way he knows I planned a way off.”

The matriarch frowned at that. “You... came to this island?” she murmured, her eye narrowing. “Why?”

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. “My brother,” he started to explain, and then he looked away. It was suddenly really hard to speak, too. “H-He found out about this place, and he was abducted because of it. I came here to find him … and I was kind of hoping that you knew where he was. But it sounds like you might have already met him and…”

That was all he could manage, Dean’s throat seizing up at the thought. He knew Sam though — he would have tried to rally together any allies he could find to stop Dick, and vampires would have been an ideal choice. He could easily imagine Sam’s passionate speech,too … But unlike Dean, his brother hadn’t had an angel around to protect when the vampires attacked...

“We may not have.”

It was the male vampire who had spoken, his Southern accent rough and faint. Dean’s eyes shot up toward him in surprise, not sure he heard him right; the matriarch looked over as well, the question on her face. The male looked at her and then nodded toward Dean. “Hard t’tell under the smell of the werewolf but ... his scent _is_ familiar, and not because we tasted it before.”

Dean felt his heart start to pound. He wasn’t even weirded out when the male wiped blood off his lips — Dean’s blood — and offered it to the matriarch. Dean was terrified to hope, but he couldn’t look away as she smelled his hand, her eye slipping closed as she took it in.

Her eye flew open in the next moment. “He’s right,” she said. Dean’s heart leapt as she looked to Castiel. “It smells like the ghost.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed how Castiel tensed. When he looked over, the angel looked confused, his head shaking slightly. “That… That can’t be,” he whispered.

“Not if he’s in the ghost’s forest. The place still smells of it,” she said, and that had Castiel frowning. Dean had no idea who the hell the ghost was, or why it had its own forest (though it sounded familiar…), but he could get the details later. Right then, there was only one question to ask.

“Have you smelled it recently?” he asked frantically, and she looked back at him, wonder in her eye.

“Yes. A few days ago, before we came here,” she murmured. The male nodded in agreement.

“Smart place to be,” he said. “No way the demons can track ‘im in there, not if he’s smellin’ like the ghost.”

Dean’s heart started to pound again, faster and faster. They had only smelled him _a few days ago._ The demons would have a hard time tracking him. But more importantly ...

Dean felt his face break out into a grin, and a laugh leave his throat.

_Sam was alive._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Heavily implied child abuse/endangerment; blood drinking.

_Sam was alive._

Six months of pain, guilt, doubt, loneliness and fear were gone with those words, leaving Dean _ecstatic._ He wanted to laugh, to cheer, to sing, to tell Dick to _suck it_ (well, not literally), but most of all he wanted to bask in those words forever and ever. His brother was _alive,_ and Dean was going to find him. Then they were going to do what they should have done together from the very beginning: Bring Dick down, and get all these people _home_.

And for some of those people, that couldn’t happen soon enough.

Dean found himself glancing over to where Castiel was, the angel on a nearby rock ledge that overlooked the island. If he was standing guard or keeping his distance, Dean didn’t know, and he didn't want to ask either. He didn’t even know where he’d even begin, and anything he _did_ say would just sound awkward. _So, hey, about you trying to eat me … y’know, again?_

So he did what he did best: He didn’t think about it. He had his hands full anyway, patching up the vampires the angel had done one hell of a number on. And there had been a lot he had to do for that: first, directing the matriarch to apply pressure to the male’s bleeding wounds, while he made ice packs out of snow, handkerchiefs and the torn-off sleeve of the matriarch’s shirt. He had still been a little woozy from the venom at the time, and several times almost fell face first into a snow bank when he bent down to scoop it up.

Eventually the venom wore off, and Dean was finally able to start treating the vampires … only for that to be easier said than done. The teenager, Sophia, hissed, bared her teeth, and cursed him out in Russian for several minutes before she let him near to look at her limp arm. (Not that he blamed her after he figured out what was wrong — dislocated shoulders _hurt._ ) But the male, Benny, was the most stubborn of all, and for a vampire that nearly collapsed when Dean had made him sit down, that was saying something.

“The wound on your chest might need stitches,” he told him when he was finally able to assess his wounds, leaning forward from seat to try to peel back the other half of the matriarch’s blood-covered shirtsleeve she had used to stop the bleeding. The male, however, moved his jacket over to hide the wound, the log he was sitting against creaking under his weight when he leaned away.

“It’s nothin’, boss. Just need to walk it off,” he panted, and Dean leveled him with a look. Though he had given him some aspirin for the pain, the male was still breathing heavily, fur matted with sweat and blood, and the way he kept touching his side made Dean think he had a bruised rib or two. He wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all the well-trained medic sitting across from him. But Dean played along, lifting an eyebrow.

“So should we just ignore the hole leftover from when an _angel blade_ went through your _hand_?”

The vampire glanced down at said hand, flopped against the ground like a dead fish, and wrapped with an ice pack and the last of Dean’s handkerchiefs. It had stopped bleeding at least, Dean knew that much — but judging how it swelled up right after that, he figured the vampire had a couple broken fingers (and maybe some tendons too). Not that vampire would let him confirm it, of course. “Just a flesh wound,” he drawled, dragging his hand out of view.

Dean huffed, annoyed. But, like with Sophia, the one who finally convinced the male to let him do his job was the matriarch.

“ _Benny_ ,” Andrea called from the tree trunk she was near, cleaning the blood and dirt off her face with what the remains of one her shirtsleeves. It wasn’t an order or a warning so much as a _shut up and let him work,_ and the male’s mouth closed as he looked over at her. Dean’s flashlight caught on the iridescent gleam of his blue eyes, revealing his warm expression, which then grew amused when the teenager let out a breathy chuckle.

“Are you scared, Benny?” she teased, deep voice brimming with her accent. She sat opposite of them, holding her own ice pack to her shoulder, her arm in a makeshift sling Dean had made out of her scarf. She looked smaller than she was in her big oversized puffer jacket and worn jeans with more holes than Dean’s, her black mane was plastered to her forehead from sweat. The pain in her yellow eyes had lessened some since Dean had given her painkillers too, and as she looked up at the male, she gave him a shaky toothy grin. “Afraid of the doctor?”

“Have _you_ heard of a human doctor for vampires?” the male shot back, but by his tone, Dean could tell he was joking. (Not that he wasn’t wrong — human doctors who specialized in vampire care _were_ rare. And though he had told him he was a medic, Dean decided not to correct them.) Benny’s body shook with silent laughter, a grin tugging at his lips. “Perhaps I should take my chances.”

Dean was about to give him lip right back — _when infection sets in, don’t say I didn’t warn you,_ was on the tip of tongue — but the laugh cost the male. He grimaced in pain after a moment, placing a hand on his ribs again as he slumped back against his log. _Definitely some hurt ribs,_ Dean thought, and then shook his head at the male. “Still planning to walk it off?” he asked sarcastically.

The male half-glared at him, but it didn’t last long, fading just as quickly as it came. He looked away, and Dean followed his gaze, frowning when he saw that the little girl had approached them.

She was a small one, too-thin like the others, her dark mane pulled back it back into a messy braid similar to the matriarch’s. She crept forward soundlessly, her face full of worry as she looked up at Benny with wide iridescent aqua-green eyes. “Are you going to be alright, Benny?” she asked, a tremble of fear in her voice.

The male practically shoved his injured hand into Dean’s then. “Of course, darlin’,” he told her with a gentle smile, while Dean looked down at his hand in surprise. “The human here is gonna’ fix me right up, good as new.”

 _That remains to be seen_ , Dean thought grimly, popping his flashlight in between his teeth so he could peel back the ice pack to take stock. Judging from where the wound was, it was possible the blade had missed the hand’s two main arteries, and yup, those looked like broken fingers. If the vampire was lucky, his tendons were fine, but Dean couldn’t exactly test to see. 

Either way, fixing him good as new would require an _actual_ doctor, but Dean would do what he could. He kept that to himself however, for the girl’s sake. After setting down his flashlight, he gave her his own smile, nodding toward Benny’s hand. “Want to help out?” he offered. “I could use an assistant.”

Every kid Dean had ever met would have jumped at the chance — the twins especially, who had always loved playing doctor and helping Dean treat their stuffed toys — but the girl just looked at him, before baring her teeth in a snarl. As Dean leaned back in surprise, the matriarch called out again.

_“Elpis.”_

The warning was in her voice this time, and the girl’s pointed ears dropped quickly. She looked over at the Andrea, letting out a sound of frustration. “ _Giatí?_ ” she cried, and then jerked a finger over to point at Dean. “ _Boreíte schedón péthane exaitías tou!_ ”

He had no idea what she was saying, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t anything positive about him. The teenager and male looked nervous by whatever it was, Dean joining them in glancing over at the matriarch. She didn’t reply, her arms folding over her chest before she laid down a stare so indifferent it would have impressed Dean’s dad. But where Dean at a young age would have cowed, it made the girl bare her teeth again, little fists clenching at her side.

With another glare at Dean, she stalked off, but didn’t go far. Right next to where the teenager was sitting was the little hole Dean had first seen the children in, and Elpis slid in, next to the little boy, Drake. He hadn’t moved since Dean had first seen him, only peering out occasionally with his bright yellow eyes. When Elpis flopped down beside him, Drake scooted over to her to nuzzle at her arm; she pushed him away, and then pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She fixed a glare over at the angel then, one that rivaled the matriarch’s in the “pissed-off” category.

Dean glanced back when the teenager let out a sound, and then pushed to her feet, something not easy to do with one arm was in a sling and another holding an ice pack. “I’ll speak to her,” she told the matriarch, who nodded after a moment. As she left, the male sighed softly, and then turned toward Andrea.

“Elpis will be alright,” he said, a sentiment not shared, as she snorted in reply.

“Will she?” she asked, a hint of frustration in her voice as her eye shifted to the children. Dean glanced back again, seeing that Sophia had followed the girl into the little hole, draping her good arm over her to pull her against her side. “Will any of them?”

It was a question Dean wondered himself. Why the girl was mad at him, he didn’t know, but hell, he didn’t blame her for being angry. Not after everything she must have gone through on this island; what _all_ the children must have been through. It made Dean ill to even think about it, and that didn’t help when he had had seen evidence of it on the teenager when he had been examining her arm. Sophia thankfully didn’t have any the same level of scarring as the adults, but she was underweight and large patches of her fur were missing along the underside of her arms. It was the vampire equivalent of chewing fingernails, taken to the extremes — a scream of loss and lack of control.

But worried Dean most was what the matriarch had said: that it _had_ been days since the nest had eaten. When their diet was comprised of liquid, vampires didn’t tend to put on a lot of weight, so it made him wonder: How _long_ could they go without a meal? Humans could go weeks, werewolves months if they had to, but vampires? Specifically, vampire _children?_ He had a feeling the teenager would probably be fine, but the little ones, Dean wasn’t sure about. He couldn’t remember anything about vampire malnutrition from class, but his gut told him they needed food sooner rather than later. But they were still two days from a chance at a decent meal…

At least one that wasn’t the human sitting in front of them.

Dean swallowed at that, and then looked back when the male sighed again. It was a sad sound. “We’ve survived this far,” he murmured to the matriarch, whose upper lip lifted in a sneer.

“Not enough of us. Not enough for _them_.” She looked back at Benny, her eye narrowing. “And we are still _on_ this island, don’t forget.”

Dean swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to reassure her. Reassure all of them, really. “Not for long, I promise,” he told her, and the matriarch looked at him.

Despite their unspoken “truce,” she still gave him a look that made its own promise: evisceration. “You shouldn’t make promises you might not be able to keep, human,” she said bluntly, and Dean flinched despite himself. “Not on this island. Until I see this boat of yours for myself, keep your promises to yourself.”

 _Promise me, Dean,_ Dean heard Sam whisper in the back of his mind, but he ignored it as he frowned at her. Okay, _maybe_ he wasn’t the best at keeping promises (but when it came to Sam, wasn’t that for the best?), but how could she not believe him, even now? Why wouldn’t she want to believe her family could escape this hellhole? Was she _that_ jaded? Besides, she _could_ believe him: Bobby had never let him down, and he would be there with his boat, come hell or high water. Dean _would_ get them off this island — and Sam and Castiel — even if it _killed_ him—

He never got a chance to say anything though, Dean looking up in surprise when the matriarch approached him and the male. “Do you need help?” she asked, a question that threw Dean completely.

“What?” he asked stupidly. 

“You told Elpis you could use an assistant,” she replied as she bent to sit cross-legged on the ground beside him. “Do you need one?”

Dean blinked. Twice. While he had told that girl that in hopes of making her feel better, someone to help out _would_ make his work easier. Still, he was surprised by the offer — not that she wouldn’t want to help one of her nest, but he realized then the amount of trust she was putting in him to treat her wounded. And as he looked her over — with her scars, and her missing shirt sleeves sacrificed for makeshift bandages and ice packs; her own wounds untreated because she had insisted Dean look at the others first — he remembered she had no reason to believe him, or trust him. 

Like she had said, he wasn’t the first human to promise a way off the island, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already gotten several people killed. Hell, the vampires had almost died because of him too; not to mention, he was the one responsible for the whole army of demons coming after everyone on this island. He wouldn’t trust himself if _he_ were in the matriarch’s shoes … Especially when there were kids involved. 

But here she was: allowing him to help, offering to help, when she could have tried to kill him again — angel or not — or taken her nest and left. (They would have been in _a_ _lot_ of pain, but they could have walked away.) Maybe it was a sign of good faith that she _hadn’t_ done those things … even if she didn’t believe him about the boat. And if it was, well…

For them, for the kids, Dean was going to do his best to earn that sign.

And he could use some help … Even if what he needed was the most _boring_ job in the world. “Yeah,” he said, grimacing. “I… I could use someone to hold the flashlight for me so I can see?”

Despite the simplicity of the request, Andrea accepted it without comment, and picked up the flashlight. As she lifted it up and over onto the male’s wounds, Benny looked from it to her, his eyes narrowing in a squint. 

“Please don’t blind me with that thing,” he grumbled, and she quirked an eyebrow at him. 

“Only if you don’t give him any more trouble,” she shot back, and he let the most long-suffering sigh Dean had ever heard.

“ _Fine_.”

While the matriarch held the flashlight, Dean got to work, starting with the chest wound first. He slowly peeled back the male’s makeshift bandage slowly, revealing the deep cut in skin that went from one end of his pectoral muscles to the other. It had stopped bleeding, but it was deep enough that it was going to need stitches. Dean sighed under his breath: It could have been a lot worse, but out of the male’s two injuries, his hand would be his first priority. 

He had just started working on the male’s hand — pouring water on the male’s hand to wash away blood and dirt — when the matriarch asked him a question he wasn’t expecting.

“Where are we?”

Dean had to stare at her for a moment, before figuring out that she was asking _where_ the island was, and then realizing _of course she wouldn’t know._ Then it took him yet another moment to actually remember the small town he had came from, even though he had been there only a day ago. “Uhhhhhh. About … About 75 miles off the coast of a town called Okhotnik. It’s right off the Alaska-Yukon border.”

“Well, that explains the cold,” Benny grumbled. The matriarch hummed thoughtfully, looking up at him.

“But does that explain why no one has ever found us?”

That, at least, Dean had an answer for. “I gotta’ say, it wasn’t easy to figure out who Dick even abducted. Do you know how many people go _missing_ every year?”

When he got blank looks from both vampires, he coughed, moving on. “With some of the people that Dick’s operation took … most of the time, it was like they had vanished into thin air, with no clues to where they had gone. But there was a pattern behind all the abductions — it just took some _serious_ digging to find it. I was lucky to have some of what my brother had figured out to go off of, but without that … I doubt anyone could figure out that you were taken, let alone _where_.”

“That’s comforting,” Benny grumbled sarcastically, and Dean had to agree with him: How Sam had been able to put two-and-two together, he didn’t know. And now that he was thinking about it, he realized how Castiel’s disappearance fit the pattern of the others, which was even less comforting. The _entire world_ had been looking for the angel, yet no one had been able to find him; well, except maybe Sam … but if he had, it had probably been with the rest of the evidence he had gathered, and who even knew what happened with that. 

The matriarch’s expression had grown curious, Dean looking over when she tipped her head at him. “What was the pattern?” she prompted, which made Dean grimace.

“It’s kind of complicated,” he admitted, but she shrugged.

“Humor me.”

So Dean did, explaining the best he could in between cleaning the wound on the male’s hand and preparing splints for his broken fingers. He had followed the trail of clues Sam had inadvertently left behind, the stuff Dean remembered from the few glimpses he had seen of Sam's work over the years: Dick Roman, some missing person reports, an island, and a company called SparkCo Natural Resources. In the end, the SparkCo clue had been the lead that cracked open the case for him: Every time that particular energy company moved into a region, there would be a sudden uptick in unexplained disappearances in the surrounding areas. At the same time, they would make a series of shipments that connected with a various number of their facilities across the world, before ultimately going through Okhotnik's tiny port and then out to the island.

Of course, he hadn’t been able to figure out all that on his own — Dean had to rely on the help of a friend of Bobby’s, a very paranoid government conspiracy believer and computer genius by the name of Frank. (Who, ironically, had parked his tech-filled motorhome in a barn where a vampire nest lived, having earned their welcome by providing them with free WiFi.) It had cost a small fortune to hire him, but it was worth every penny and then some: Frank had broken down the all the data and shown Dean the patterns for what they were. He had also been able to show how Dick was connected to the company too: buried away under tons of paperwork and firewalls, it turned out SparkCo Natural Resources was a subsidiary of Richard Roman Enterprises. 

However, there were some abductions Sam had credited to Dick’s operation that Dean hadn't been able to confirm, as he explained to the vampires. “The disappearance of a Russian vampire nest, for example,” he told the matriarch while he was splinting the male’s fingers as gently as he could. “The Russian authorities thought they simply migrated out of the country for the winter. They never realized they were _gone_.”

“The Russian nest?” Andrea repeated while Benny hissed in pain, fingers twitching. Dean gave him an apologetic look, when something occurred to him. Wait a minute … Sophia spoke Russian, didn’t she?

While that went through Dean’s mind again, the matriarch sighed, looking off into the distance. “I wonder what they thought happened to us, then?” she murmured quietly, as if to herself, “Capsized at sea?”

“Wait, what?” Dean looked up at her again, confused. She looked back at him, and he frowned. “Capsized? You’re not … You’re not the Russian nest?”

“That is the _Solokov_ nest,” Andrea corrected, and then nodded toward where the children were. “Only two of them remain now: Sophia and Drake. Their mothers were sisters. Eplis is of the Greek Kormos family, the last of her nest … and my second cousin.” 

The matriarch trailed off, her ears twitching before she glanced away. “I am of the American Kormos family. I was visiting my aunt’s nest — Elpis’s nest — when we were abducted. We were out on the family yacht when we were... boarded.” 

That took a bit for Dean to wrap his head around: one, that was a lot of _last ofs_ than he would have ever liked to hear _,_ and two, was she saying what he thought she was saying _?_ That … that they, the _children,_ had watched their _entire family_ die? 

_Son of a bitch_ , he thought as he looked over at the children. He had lost his mom when he was young, so he kind of knew what that pain was like … but an entire family? _Holy shit._ (Was that why the girl had been angry with him? He had almost gotten what remained of her family killed. _Fuck_.)

The horror of that wasn’t going to leave him any time soon, but he realized something else about what she said. “Wait. Were both your nests put on this island at the same time?” he asked, looking at the matriarch again.

Her lip lifted in a sneer, like she knew exactly what Dean was asking. “Yes.”

Dean’s mouth dropped in shock. That was … That was _insane._ Vampire nests were easily fifteen to twenty members each, and they did _not_ like any other vampires within their territory — as in, things got bloody, _quick_. Nests only came together when they were on neutral ground, and there was no way this island could be big enough for two nests to co-exist happily. Could the island even support that many vampires, when there wasn’t any food? (And even if there _was_ food, could it?)

But Dean couldn’t quite articulate that point yet: he was still stuck on the first part. “Two _nests?_ ” he repeated, which made Benny huff softly and the matriarch bare her teeth.

“Only twenty-three of our two nests survived by the time we were placed on the island,” she spat, and Dean cringed. She shook her head. “But we were small release, compared to some of the others.”

 _The others?_ Dean thought, confused, and glanced over when Benny let out another huff.

“I don’t think anything will compare to five nests all at once. _That_ was a bloodbath,” he muttered, and Dean’s mind went blank. _Five nests?_ Dick had _fives_ _nests_ thrown onto this island? “And that was after releasing four nests in my time. You’d think they would have learned that first time.”

Dean frowned at that, confused. “Your time?” he repeated, and the male blinked at him, like he hadn’t realized what he had said.

“Ah,” he finally murmured, and then gave a slow nod. “I am the _Lafitte_ family. Also _last of_.” His lips twitched toward an amused smirk, but his eyes were anything but happy. “My nest was released long ago … By the Mother, how many years has it been?”

He looked to Andrea, and the matriarch sighed, as if this was a conversation they had before. “At least six years, Benny,” she murmured softly.

While Dean’s mind went blank again, the male sighed as well. “Only six years?” he said, his blue eyes growing distant. “Feels like forever sometimes.”

Dean knew he probably looked like an idiot with his mouth gaping open like a fish, but he couldn’t help it. Six years. _Six years._ He stared at Benny — with his scars and bite marks and thin body and matted fur in places — mind _reeling_. Dean hadn’t even been here for a _day,_ and that had been enough for him — but _six years?_

 _Son of a bitch,_ he thought. He was kind of glad he was sitting down, because this was all becoming a little too much to take: Five nests being released on the island all at once! Children watching their entire families die! Vampires who had lived here for _years_! But it was more than that too, the full weight of that settling on him, making his head hurt. 

It was like seeing Castiel’s broken wings again, but it was also so much worse. He had already figured that a lot of people had probably died on this island, and this had been going on for years and years. But entire generations of families had lived and died here for and no one in the outside world even knew. And might have never known, if it wasn’t for Sam! And it was all because of Dick Roman … What he had gotten away with…

No wonder the matriarch didn’t believe him, he realized a second later, glancing over at Andrea. Watching two nests die off was bad enough … but knowing this had gone on for _years_ without anyone ever coming to rescue them? _Fuck._

It was all so overwhelming to think about — and God, what he would have done for a drink at that moment — yet there was something still bothering him, and been for a while now. He actually had a billion questions, but only one was as pressing. “But there’s no _food_ here. What have you—” 

_—been eating?_ He hesitated then, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Did he really want an answer to that question? 

Andrea frowned at him, and it was the first time he had seen her look generally confused. “That’s not true,” she replied, much to Dean’s surprise. “During the spring through fall, there’s plenty of food: Birds, fish, seals, rabbits, mice, voles…”

“Whoever thought you could miss vole blood,” Benny interjected then, sounding almost wistful as he licked his lips. Dean tried not to be too grossed out.

“But winter is the hardest time,” Andrea went on, and Dean looked back at her. She turned away from him, her eyes growing distant as she looked out over at the children and Castiel. “Most of the animals migrate away. We’ve made due on the ones that don’t, even though it’s always been difficult. But this year…”

She trailed off, her ears twitching again. It was Benny who chimed in, his smile from earlier replaced with a grim look. “Winter came early this year,” he explained, Dean glancing at him. “The first snowstorms killed off the plants the animals eat, which was bad enough…”

“When a sickness went through the island and killed off most of what was left,” Andrea finished quietly, her eyes still distant. “Six mouths to feed and nothing to feed them with, and a disease all on top of that.”

 _Six?_ Dean frowned at that. But there were only _five_ of them … Before he could ask, the way Benny’s face fell and his ears lowered again made Dean hesitate, his stomach sinking. Son of bitch, had there been another vampire who died recently?

The matriarch looked at him then, her expression curious once more. “That is why I was surprised to see the angel protecting you,” she murmured, and Dean felt himself tense a little. “Most of the plants and berries he relies on died in the first snowstorm, and I _know_ he’s only had tree bark and mushrooms for the last few weeks. You were the first chance at a solid meal any of us have had in weeks.”

Dean swallowed. Yeah, he still wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea that he had almost been eaten by seven people in less than twenty-four hours. “But I get it now,” Andrea went on. “I understand.”

Dean hesitated, confused. “Understand…?” he repeated. Understand what?

“Why he did it,” she replied, and then looked over at Benny. “There’s only one thing worse than hunger in this place.”

Dean grew even more lost. “What?”

It wasn’t her that answered. It was Benny, blue eyes having met Andrea’s, his hand reaching for her free hand. “Being alone,” he murmured.

Those words hit Dean in a way he wasn’t expecting. He stiffened and, without even thinking, glanced over at Castiel. The angel still hadn’t moved, and Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if he had turned into a statue by this point. But as he looked him over, what the vampires had said wouldn’t leave his mind, and he had to wonder. 

Had Castiel been alone all this time?

Dean hadn’t even thought about that: being alone on this island, the only one of your kind, everyone else happy to make you a meal if they could. And when were angels ever alone? They were part of huge hosts that numbered in the thousands; even in the smallest of groups, an angel always had at least one other angel at their side. Dean couldn’t even imagine what that was like, going from being surrounded by family and friends to absolutely no one.

But why him? he wondered, frowning at Castiel. Because that was what the matriarch was implying: that there was something about him that made the angel feel less alone. Why him, and not the vampires? They seemed to like him well enough. Or why not another human who had been thrown onto this island? (Why not Sam? Wasn’t his brother just as alone on this island? And fuck, Dean couldn’t think about that.)

Whatever it was about him, it couldn’t have been worth much, Dean thought then. Castiel had only just refrained from trying to eat him, _twice_. And there was nothing to say he wouldn’t try again either, which was the _last_ thing Dean needed to deal with. Maybe the angel was better off alone until he got a meal in him and was reunited with his family; Dean certainly did not have time for lonely angels. He needed to find Sam.

Shit though. He knew what it was like to be alone, more than he would have liked to admit. _Take care of yourself, Dean,_ he heard Jess whisper in the back of his mind, and he had to look away.

His stomach twisted in uncomfortable knots, his throat growing tight again. But it was then he noticed the little vampire boy was approaching them, toddling forward slowly on legs he probably was still learning how to use properly. It was the first time Dean had seen him up close, and he had the same dark skin and black hair like Sophia — no surprise, since they were cousins. He was still a couple years from growing into his ears too, and they flopped up and down like a hopping rabbit’s. 

He waddled straight up to Benny and right into his arm; like he had before with Elpis, he nuzzled the skin there, little nose rubbing against the male’s jacket. It was kind of cute … so Dean was surprised when Benny sighed harshly, and lifted his leg up slightly to push the boy away with his knee. 

“Sorry, little one,” he muttered to the boy. Despite the rejection, the male looked pained. “I don’t think I can.”

 _What?_ Dean wondered, confused. The boy, whatever he wanted, didn’t give up, wandering back into Benny’s arm. This time he bit Benny’s jacket with the tiniest of whines; the male’s face grew more pained, while Andrea sighed herself.

“Drake, _no,”_ she called, when she seemed to notice Dean’s confused look, and explained. “He’s asking to be fed.”

Dean frowned at that. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t actually know a lot about how vampires fed their children. Not that he had ever learned much about vampire care, but he was surprised he hadn’t read that in a textbook somewhere. “Off your arm like that?” he asked.

Andrea chuckled, but it was unhappy sound. “I’ll save you the biology lesson, but yes, when we need to,” she explained, while Drake let out another tiny whine. Her face grew troubled at the sound, and she shook her head. “But only when we’ve had enough to eat ourselves.”

Dean felt a stab of guilt at that, only to go very still when Drake turned to waddle toward him. Like before, he toddled into his arm, Dean feeling the warmth of his skin even through two layers of shirts and his jacket. But when he nuzzled his arm, the effort felt weak — the boy didn’t even whine this time or bite. His bright yellow eyes grew half-lidded as he looked up at Dean, the question silent but loud as hell for Dean internally.

It made his heart _ache_ internally _._ Honestly, he didn’t know enough about vampire children to know if they were naturally quiet, especially when it came to food. (Maybe they didn’t cry for food like human children? Or worse, had the boy stopped crying because he knew food wasn’t coming?) But it pinged at Dean’s medical instincts in all the wrong way like it had earlier, and his heart started to pound. The niggling feeling was coming back: too the one that said the children needed to eat soon rather than later. And despite everything, there was a perfectly good meal sitting right in front of them…

“Drake,” Andrea was saying as she started to rise to her feet, only to pause when Dean croaked out a ‘wait.’ Dean swallowed as both vampires looked at him, realizing this was probably one of his crazier ideas, but he had to do it.

“I… I can feed him.” 

* * *

It was a while before Dean could actually feed anyone. He had to finish treating Benny’s wounds first, cleaning and bandaging his hand, before stitching up his chest wound. Then it was Andrea’s turn, but the cut on her head only required cleaning and a couple bandages. 

As he worked, he told them about what the demons were doing, how to take cares of their injuries, and the same things he had told Castiel: If they got to boat before him and Sam, they needed to just go. “You can send help back,” he said to the matriarch, and though her expression was unreadable (and he still wasn’t sure if she believed him or not), she nodded.

After he was done, he treated the bite wound at his neck, cleaning it quickly and slapping a bandage on it. Then he packed away his gear, except for a few bandages he knew he would need later, before removing his jacket. The cold nipped bitterly at his skin as he rolled his shirtsleeves up, Andrea looking down at his telltale bite scars on his wrists, white in the moonlight. 

“You’ve done this before,” she murmured, and Dean had to look away, embarrassed. There were only a couple reasons someone willingly fed a vampire, and usually it was because they were needed some cash quick. But explaining to the matriarch that he only ever done it for Sam when they were _really_ desperate seemed like too much effort, so he said nothing on it.

“It’s been a while, but yeah,” he muttered instead, but thankfully she didn’t comment either. She merely nodded, and lifted an eyebrow at him, her lips twitching toward something that could have been a smile.

“That explains why you handled the venom side effects so well.”

That got a small laugh out of him. _Just barely,_ he thought, but only to himself. He watched as Andrea turned to Elpis then; despite the promise of a meal, the girl did not look happy still, glaring at Dean. “Don’t drink too fast,” Andrea told her, and the girl glanced over at her. “You might make yourself sick otherwise.”

The girl sneered, and it looked so much like Andrea’s that Dean almost laughed again. But the sound caught in his throat when the girl spat bitterly, “Why is it only Drake and me that get to fed on him? Why not eat all of him?”

Dean winced. He honestly would give them however much of his blood they needed if he could — he really would. But they had already decided — the children would only take about around a pint between them, and that was safest amount he could give. It would hopefully be enough to keep them going too, until they were off the island.

 _“Elpis,”_ Andrea chided, and the girl looked away from her, her face crumpling up sadly. “You need to eat.”

“So do you, and Benny and Sophia,” Elpis sniffed, and Dean had one of those niggling feelings again that she had watched someone die from hunger. (Hell, who was he kidding? She probably had.) It made his heart hurt again, and he wished he could reassure her, promise her it would be okay. 

Benny chimed in from where he was, holding Drake in his lap with his good arm. The boy kept half-heartedly gnawing on jacket sleeve, but he didn’t seem to notice. “We’ll be alright,” he told Elpis, offering her a smile. “Do it. For me?”

That seemed to do it: the girl’s ears fell, but she acquiesced with a nod. When she looked at Dean next, her glare was gone, and he gave her his own weak smile. Giving her something to eat wasn’t much of an apology for almost getting her family killed, but he hoped it helped some. At least a little.

When the time came, the vampire bites didn’t hurt at all, which Dean had always found odd. When the blood was given willing, it just seemed to make everything easier; even the venom’s effects didn’t seem as bad, the world slowing as his body happily relaxed. There wasn’t even any hallucinations, Dean only hearing laughter that he recognized as Sam’s from when he was a kid. It was comforting almost; a good sign too: Whatever he would dream while he was out would probably be nice.

He hoped anyway.

As darkness started to fill his vision and he felt himself begin to slip into unconsciousness, he noticed something. Castiel had finally moved from where he had been standing, watching them with a worried look. Their eyes met from across the distance, the angel’s blue eyes bright in the moonlight. 

They were the last thing Dean saw before the world went dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Giatí? Boreíte schedón péthane exaitías tou!”_ is Greek for "Why? You almost died because of him!" (According to Google Translate, with the original being, _γιατί? Μπορείτε σχεδόν πέθαναν εξαιτίας του!_ Please correct me if I'm wrong — it was kind of hard to determine if that translation was actually correct.)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Child endangerment.

* * *

**Colt’s Gate, Wyoming; Spring 1992**

* * *

“If you’re in a pinch, you can just use a sapling,” Dean explained while he knotted a stake to a thin, willowy branch that he had stripped of its leaves. Sam, kneeling beside him on the dirt, watched him intently. “But if you got the time, build the entire trap. It’s a simple one, but it doesn’t matter what you’re hunting: You can it take down with a pig spear trap.”

“Anything?” Sam asked, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes when he looked up at him. “Not just pigs?”

Dean laughed at that, looping in another knot around the stake. “Yeah, despite the name, this baby can be used on anything. Of course, that makes it _pritt-tee_ dangerous, too. You want to be careful that you don’t accidentally set it off after you’re done setting it up.”

Sam nodded with the same intense focus that he showed his schoolbooks or multiplication tables. Dean knew that meant he was doing a good job teaching if he was getting Sammy’s brain the knowledge it loved so much, and he felt a stirring of pride. He was doing that; he was teaching Sam. And sure, his brother had only wanted to learn about hunting, tracking and traps because he had “read about them in a book once” and “wanted to see how they actually worked.” But it was Bobby who had entrusted Dean to show Sam, and he was still secretly thrilled about that; not to mention, it was something their father preferred Dean teaching too, and he always jumped at a chance to make Dad happy.

With that positive thought, Dean leaned up, the branch bobbing in the air as he moved. “Okay, let me show you the different ways you can set this trap up.”

Birds warbled happily in the pine trees and chipmunks darted around as Dean showed off the ins-and-outs of the trap. It was the perfect time to teach Sam if Dean said so himself: The forest had slowly been coming back to life for a few weeks now, spring having finally come to Colt’s Gate and the surrounding base and town. That meant game would be easy to track, and Dean had plenty of things to test Sam on … As long as he remembered everything Dean told him, of course.

“All right,” he said to Sam when he finished the trap demonstration and taken everything apart again. “Let’s go over it again.”

“Look for water first,” his brother repeated on cue, and Dean nodded. “Animals always live close by, and use game trails to get back and forth from their dens to water sources.”

He looked up at him to confirm he was right; Dean lifted his eyebrows, encouraging him to go on. Sam nodded, and gestured toward the leave and pine-needle strewn ground.

“Find the trail, set your traps and wait.”

“But?”

Sam hesitated, and then grinned. “But always mark your traps in a way that you or someone else can see them.”

“Right,” Dean said proudly, and reached over to ruffle Sam’s hair, who laughed. That was his Sammy — only nine years old, and like Dean told everyone who’d listen: the smartest kid this side of the Rockies. As often as he called Sam a geek, he was proud of him. (And, he liked to think their mom would have been too.)

Sam grinned at him from under the now-rumpled mess of his long hair, but it faded after a moment for a more thoughtful look. The expression made Dean frown, and prompt him with, “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said slowly. Between his fingers, he rocked his butterfly knife, which he had used to help Dean sharpen stakes back-and-forth. Then he looked up at Dean again. “I mean, I know this is good to know, and we’ll give whatever we catch to Paul and his mom, but … I guess I’d feel kind of bad if I actually killed something with one of these.”

He said the last part quietly, before cringing and looking away, obviously waiting for Dean to admonish or make fun of him.

Dean hesitated, however. He could understand that: while he had no problems giving smaller game to the werewolves, he had similar struggle when Bobby had taken him out deer hunting. He had just been unable to pull the trigger, and though Bobby had rolled his eyes for his reasoning (it was _Bambi’s mom),_ he hadn’t made him to do it.

Dean bit his lip, and tried not to think about what Dad would have said. “Well,” he murmured slowly, and then gestured down at the trap components. “It’s like Bobby says: This is good to know, even if you don’t ever use it. And now you know … And you don’t have to use it?”

Sam looked up at him, a hopeful grin spreading across his face.

“Just don’t tell Dad,” Dean added quickly before he got _too_ excited. Sam’s smile dropped like a rock, before he let out a nervous giggle.

“Okay.”

Dean let out his own weak laugh, only to frown when it sounded too loud in his ears. He glanced around curiously to see if he could figure out why, which was when he noticed it: The forest had gone silent.

Birds had stopped singing, the chipmunks were gone, and there was a tension in the air that hadn’t been there a moment before. Dean was on full alert at that, getting to his feet as quietly as he could , and instinctively reaching for his rifle he had set against a tree. As he lifted it up, he took a step toward his brother to shield him. Sam, having sensed the danger as well, glanced around nervously, whispering, “What is it, Dean?”

He didn’t know. The only time a forest got quiet like this was when a predator was near, but he didn’t see anything in the tree line. But he could hear something now: A weird, loud whistling sound in the air that he couldn’t figure it out, his eyes instinctively searching for the source. Sam looked over too, the sound growing louder and louder and _louder_. When whatever it was suddenly _swooshed_ right over them, Dean almost fell over in surprise, and Sam let out a yell.

Trees rocked in its wake; birds took off in alarm. Sam’s hair was blown around wild, his hazel eyes wide as he looked up at Dean. “Was that a rocket?!” he cried, but Dean never got a chance to reply as that was right when _it_ hit.

The impact sent them both to the ground, the trees shaking violently as the shock wave roared through them. Sam shrieked his name, Dean trembling with panic as he whipped around to look at him. His brother was okay though, but had gone quiet, mouth falling open as his eyes were drawn up to the sky. When Dean followed his gaze, he saw the large plume of smoke starting to form from over the trees. It was coming from the direction of the base, and a wail of sirens followed in its wake, loud enough to almost dampen the sounds of more high-pitched whistles streaking by. The explosions however, couldn’t be drowned out.

“Dean?!” Sam cried again, the earth shaking once, twice, three times. Dean almost tumbled over as he got to his feet, and moved to help Sam up, gripping his hand tight. “Are the daemons attacking us?!”

Dean couldn’t answer, eyes back toward the base, its wails sounding almost pained now. There were several smoke plumes rising up, and that made his heart started to pound. Dad, Bobby, _everyone_. They were all at the base — which was _still_ under attack, more rockets streaking overhead.

He only had to look at Sam, before they both took off running for the base. More rockets flew by, and Dean started to hear gunfire and the sounds of grenades going off into between explosions. But it _couldn’t_ be the demons, he thought. The attacks had come from the west, and last Dean heard, the entirety of the Azazel Uprising army was in the south. And so were their troops, Colt’s Gate a crucial supply line for them, as well as the rear guard of their northern flank.

So it couldn’t be the demons. They couldn’t be here. (He couldn’t lose Dad and Bobby and everyone else like he had lost mom. He _couldn’t._ )

But as much as Dean hoped that it wasn’t them — though he didn’t know who else would be attacking them — it wasn’t meant to be. He knew the moment he and Sam came to a break in the forest that overlooked the base and they saw it being overrun by demon forces.

The Azazel Uprisings war had come to their doorstep, and they had never saw it coming.

* * *

When Colt’s Gate fell, it was after what felt like endless weeks of fighting. In their first push, the demons had focused on seizing control of communications and the armory rather than suppression. It was because of that Colt’s soldiers were able to move a lot of civilians to the shelters, and set up a perimeter line that covered one half of the base and part of town. That was where Dean and Sam ended up, Dean relieved when he found his dad and Bobby amongst those who had managed not to get caught up in the bombing run and initial invasion.

But their new stronghold had more than their share of problems: mountains and forests on two sides cutting off escape; all roads out controlled by demons. Not that anyone wanted to leave: not with their families and friends in demon’s hands, and no sign that the outside world even knew that the base was in enemy control. The allied troops to the south were vulnerable too, in no way prepared for an army that could attack them from two fronts. For their family, for their homes, for their country, the newly designated Colt’s Gate Resistance Force wanted to fight.

It didn’t last long. They _were_ lucky it lasted as long as it did — three whole weeks of guerilla warfare and harassing the demons, with a few victories here and there: securing munitions in one raid; even managing to rescue a few civilians and other soldiers in another. But everyone knew that all the demons had to do was wait them out, until they ran out of supplies, ammunition and their werewolves started to turn on them since they lacked hormonal shots.

It was a waiting game in the end... But demons weren’t known for their patience.

_Dean, take your brother and go!_

When their dad had told him that, Dean had obeyed without a second thought. He had grabbed Sam’s hand and ran deep into the forest, away from the shelters the demons were invading. He didn’t want to think about what they left behind: the Colt’s Gate soldiers trying to hold the demons at bay as civilians evacuated; the gunfire, the explosions, the screams of wounded and frightened; their dad charging like a bull right into the demon soldiers who had burst through the door after them—

So he didn’t, dragging Sam up hills and through trees, to the only safe place he could think of. If they were being followed, he didn’t know; he couldn’t see too far because of the morning fog — could only hear the crunch of leaves under their feet, the spurts of gunfire, screaming and the occasional round of barking from one of the demons’ dogs. He knew the way by heart though, and when they crested the last hill, they came to the old barn and cabin, still standing even after the onslaught of bombings.

The cabin had once been owned by a hunter, and it had become a sort of hang-out spot for everyone in town. The kids would drop off their school bags before they went swimming at the nearby lake; teens would bring dates up to have a place to make out; even the adults would come up to drink beer and go fishing. However, what Dean wanted was in the barn; he pushed open the side door with his shoulder and tugged Sam inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

It was dark, and quiet, except for Sam’s soft whimpers and now muted gunfire. “Oh God, Dean, we left them, _we left them_ ,” Sam whispered and Dean looked down at him, seeing his disheveled hair, wide eyes and cheeks stained with tears and dirt. His clothes were sprayed with someone else’s blood, and he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He looked like Dean felt, but he knew he had to stay strong for Sammy’s sake, to not let his brother see him panic. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t comfort him, and Dean dragged him into a tight hug. Sam clung to him, burying his face into his shirt with another sob.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he whispered, though he didn’t believe that himself. He didn’t know if he could ever believe that again, not after what he had seen, not with the demons still out there. Not with Dad and Bobby not there. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

It worked. He felt as Sam started to calm, and when he pulled back, he wiped at his eyes and let out a deep shuddering breath. When he looked up at Dean, sniffling a little before he nodded, Dean managed a smile. His little brother was braver and stronger than he had ever been at his age, and Dean knew right then he would do anything to protect him. Even die if he had to, and it was that conviction that let him suck in his own calming breath, and focus back on what they needed to do.

“Come on,” he told Sam, and gestured toward the large object in the center of the barn. Together, they gripped the tan-colored tarp that covered it and started pulling; in swift tugs the black shine and silver gleam of the Impala was revealed. It was still standing, beautiful as ever, and Dean let out a soft sound in relief as he touched the smooth metal.

He had always wondered why Dad had kept the car way out here, so far away from the base. Dean had used to think it was because they could almost pretend they lived in a real home out here, with the cabin and lake, the war far from everyone’s mind. But that wasn’t the main reason for storing the Impala out of the way, Dean knew that now: It was a backup plan, a means of escape if they needed to bug out quickly and couldn’t take the truck. Dean didn’t know if his dad had always thought something like the invasion of Colt’s Gate would happen, or if he was just being overly cautious … But knowing his dad, probably both.

He couldn’t complain though, not now. He padded his pockets for the keys Dad had shoved into his hands right before he shoved them out the shelter door; his fingers were shaking too badly to grip them properly, and he almost dropped them twice on his way to the back of the Impala. Sam stood next to him while Dean opened the trunk and was presented with array of weapons his father owned. But faced with so many choices, Dean suddenly found himself freezing, eyes darting from the sawed-off shotgun, to the pistols, to the crossbow and knives.

Which one did he choose? he wondered, his hands starting to tremble again from where they gripped the trunk edges. Which gun would best protect Sammy? Which gun could keep them safe from all the demons out there? And once he had it, what would he even _do_ with it? Did Dad want him to try to get to the main road and to the next town? To just hide out here and hope the demons didn’t find them? God, he didn’t know what to _do,_ and the only person he could ask was dead for all he knew.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut at that, trying not imagine it, trying not to see blood-splattered walls or hear screams again. But it was so _hard_ , and he grit his teeth to hold back a shuddering sob that wanted to make itself known. He had seen so many people _die,_ mowed down before he could even blink; what if the demons had done that to Dad and Bobby too? What if he lost them like he had lost his mom…?

“ _Dean_.”

Despite him whispering it, the warning in Sam’s voice was clear. Dean’s eyes snapped open, and he glanced down at his brother, who was peering through the crack between trunk and car. His eyes were wide, and when Dean dipped a little to see what he was looking at, he saw why. Through the Impala’s windows, he could see the main barn door opening slowly, its creak loud in the morning air. From it, a demon stepped inside, and Dean felt his heart drop.

He liked to think that nothing scared him, but Dean couldn’t even pretend when it came to demons. He had been terrified of them since he was four years old, and he had watched a mob of them set their house on fire with his mom still inside. But it wasn’t their eyes or teeth or even their hulking bodies that frightened Dean: It was how human they looked despite their species’ differences.

It was how Dean had learned that monsters never looked liked they did in the stories: They looked just like he did, and they would take everything he loved from him if he ever forgot that.

And that was a very real threat here and now. The demon hadn’t seen them though, Dean realizing the door of the open trunk lid hid them from view. But it seemed like the demon knew someone was there; his sunglasses glinted on what light there was as he lifted his nose to scent the air. He didn’t move for a moment, slight shifts of head indicating he was listening intently, and Dean had to hope he couldn’t hear their shuddering breaths or pounding hearts.

When another long moment passed without the demon moving, Dean started to wondered if maybe he wasn’t hearing or smelling anything. But when his head turned toward the trunk lid, that was when Dean knew he knew they were there. His heart leapt, and he could hear his breathing speed up, wanting nothing more than to push Sam toward the side door exit and scream at him to run for it.

But that was right in the pathway of the demon, who would easily mow them down. And he couldn’t let that happen. _I have to protect Sam,_ he thought over and over. _I have to protect Sam._

The mantra calmed him a little — helped him think. The demon was moving slowly toward them now, heavy boots scuffing along the dirt and rifle taut, clearly not sure what he was going to find. The only way past him was through the main door, and Dean noticed there was enough room on the other side of the Impala that he and Sam could move alongside it easily. If they could reach the main door by the time the demon came to the trunk, it was possible they could slip out unnoticed and be back in the forest before anyone was the wiser.

It was a plan, but how to tell Sam? Dean glanced at his brother, noticing that Sammy was tense and breathing very hard. Dean knew if he touched him to get his attention, he’d yell, and they couldn’t have that. Instead, he moved his hand into Sam’s line of sight, his brother’s head jerking down when he saw it. When he looked up at him, Dean pressed a finger to his lips, and Sam pursed his own with the tiniest of nods. They were both military brats, so they knew how to communicate with hand signals, and Dean gestured toward the side of the car. He bobbed two fingers to tell Sam to move down the side; his brother swallowed and nodded again, ducking down and creeping past Dean as quietly as he could. He rounded the back tire and then started to shuffle down the side, hands pressed flat against the car surface.

Dean followed him after a moment, but not before picking up the saw-off shotgun and as many rounds as he could grab in one handful. The demon paused at the sound of shells clacking together; Dean gritted his teeth, and then moved as quickly as he could to join Sam on the other side of the car. The shotgun shells he stuffed into his pocket, keeping two for the shotgun barrel. Those he loaded inside as he moved alongside the car, catching up to Sam at the first tire. Sam looked back at him, and Dean nodded at him as he snapped the barrel closed.

“ _On the count of three_ ,” he mouthed to Sam, who gave his own jerky nod. “ _One, two_ —”

The demon let out a curse on Dean’s “two,” Dean hearing him move around the car and past the trunk. He had just enough time to pump the shotgun as hard as he could, aiming for the back just as the demon whirled around. Before the demon could even lift his gun, Dean fired.

It was loud, the Impala window shattering and holes ripped through the barn wood. The demon took the full brunt of the blast, and was thrown back, but Dean didn’t even wait to see if he was dead or alive. He turned back to his brother, and screamed, _“_ Run, Sammy, _run!”_

Sam bolted, and Dean scrambled after him, bursting through the main door one after the other. Sam darted for the forest, but a shout caught Dean’s attention and he glanced back. In the brief glimpse he got, he saw another demon at the barn door, gaping at them. But it was what was at his heel that drew Dean’s eye and he slowed a little to look at it.

 _It_ was the biggest animal he had ever seen, muscular black body coming up to the demon’s waist. Dean knew what it was right away, though he had only heard about them from the soldiers or seen them from the distance. They were exactly as they had been described: nearly six feet long, sporting a long tail and a head with a massive set of jaws. Its face had been painted white to look like its skull, and with its large red eyes that glinted like fire in the sunlight, Dean realized why they had been given their name.

_Hellhound._

Dean suddenly remembered all the stories he had heard about demon dogs: how once they got your scent, they would hunt you down to the ends of the earth. It didn’t matter how fast you ran, how well you could hide … the hellhound would find you, no matter what. And this one was looking right at him, jaws snapping with barks Dean couldn’t quite hear over his pounding heart.

 _Oh shit,_ he thought, which was right when the demon let go of its leash.

He ran with everything he had in him and then some then, sprinting past trees and over logs. He only slowed when he caught up to Sam, yelling at him to run faster, _run faster, Sammy._ Sam glanced back at him and then past him, and whatever he saw made his eyes go wide before he did run faster. Dean did the same, looking back long enough to see that the hellhound was hot on their heels.

They were nowhere near as fast as it was, the dog shortening the distance between them in leaps and bounds. It may have even gotten both of them, if the forest floor hadn’t suddenly sloped down, both Dean and Sam tumbling down a hill before they realized what was happening. Bushes and exposed tree roots tore at Dean all the way, the shotgun slipping from his grasp. He hit the ground hard, the blow knocking the wind out of him.

His head spun and he could hear his dad again — _take your brother and go! —_ but he lifted his head up the moment he heard Sam yell, _“_ Dean!”

His brother was still on the hill, having got caught in tree roots halfway down. “Dean!” he screamed, looking toward the crest of the hill, and Dean followed his gaze. The hellhound was there, but it didn’t even bother trying to make its way down — it simply leapt right off and landed at the bottom, right across from him.

 _Oh, shit,_ Dean thought again, before he was scrambling to his feet as the dog snarled and bounded after him. He made it to the hill, even leaping high enough to grab onto some of the tree roots and start to pull himself up. But the hellhound was faster, jumping up after him and snapping its jaws around his ankle. Teeth like knives sliced right past his jeans and into his flesh, Dean seeing white as the pain ripped up his leg like fire. And then the dog yanked him back, Sam’s screams echoing in Dean’s ears as he fell down.

He hit the ground again, head smacking hard against the dirt. The world seemed to slow after that, and suddenly he could hear each gasp for air, his heartbeat like a drum in his ears as he pushed up on his arms. The dog was moving slower too, Dean seeing each muscle that rippled as it stepped toward him, as well as the glint of all its sharp teeth and the saliva that dangled from its lips. Its red eyes burned like fire: like the fire that was devouring his leg; like the fire that devoured his mother. Like she was nothing but meat for its hunger; like nothing she had ever done really mattered in the end.

And it was in that moment that it hit Dean: It wasn’t just Bobby or Dad or Sam he didn’t want to die like his mom had.

He didn’t want to die like that either.

But it was too late, Dean watching as the hellhound launched straight for him, jaws open wide.

Something dark swooshed over him then, its massive shadow looking like a bird’s as it flew past. It slammed right into the hellhound, Dean hearing the sound of the dog’s skull cracking as it was driven into the ground. He got a glimpse of what looked like great black wings, and then saw a streak of something silver fly into the air. Whatever that was hit the demon who was at the crest of the hill; he went limp before bonelessly sliding down the hill.

It was all over so fast that Dean wasn’t sure what had just happened. But then _it_ turned toward him, and while Dean didn’t remember closing his eyes, he was suddenly too frightened to look. He trembled as it stepped closer, Dean hearing the creak of leather and an odd rustling sound before it spoke.

“It’s okay,” it murmured, voice gentle and soothing. Dean felt something light and smooth brush against his arm and face, almost comforting. “It’s okay. You don't have to be afraid. You can open your eyes.”

It didn’t _sound_ scary, so Dean cracked them open slowly, tears and what felt like blood dripping free. The world blurred slowly back into focus, a gleam of blues, greens and purples making him squint before he realized he was looking at feathers that were reflecting the colors. His silver armor was bright too, chest plate etched with symbols Dean didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a demon’s armor, though, and that made him look up and meet warm blue eyes. That was when Dean knew what he was, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was an angel.

The emerging sun haloed around his head, but it wasn’t nearly as bright as the angel’s smile, or as warm as his eyes. “It’s okay now,” he murmured again, and Dean didn’t question it, didn’t have any doubts. He knew he could believe him — he had _saved_ him — and that was even before Sam threw himself at him, sobbing his name, or when the angel pointed up and murmured, “Look.”

And Dean did, Sam as well, both watching in awe as from the heavens burst forth with what looked to be a thousand angels. They flew overhead, some whipping past like missiles, others with great flaps of their wings.

All headed toward Colt’s Gate, and Dean knew then, it would all be okay.

* * *

**Present**

* * *

Dean woke up with a start.

It took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t thirteen again (he was almost thirty six, hell); that he only been dreaming of the war, like he so often did. His head spun again — after effects from vampire venom, he remembered (not from hitting his head) — as everything came back to him: Sam, Dick Roman, the island.

As hard as it was to imagine it, he had found a place that was actually worse than Colt’s Gate... But this time, there were no angels coming to save them all again, as much as Dean would have wanted them there.

There was _an_ angel though, one he knew well. He was crouched beside him, looking nothing like his past self with his scars and gray wings and dirty coat. But as Dean looked at him, he saw him briefly once: the great black wings, the silver armor, the warm smile. Just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone, and it hurt to see him go.

 _It’s okay,_ a voice whispered across space and time and memory as the angel turned familiar blue eyes to him. _It’s okay._

Dean looked at Castiel, and realized then how badly he wanted to believe that again.


	17. Chapter 17

After the vampires left, Dean wouldn’t have called the silence between him and Castiel _awkward. Deafening,_ maybe. _Pathetic_ , probably. _Painful_ , obviously. And it was just filled with so many questions Dean didn’t really want answers to, like _what's up with you trying to eat me again?_ and most importantly, _now what?_

Once Dean was up and able to move again, what happened to him and Castiel? Did they go their separate ways and that would be that? Did Castiel stay with him, and Dean would have to hope he wouldn't try to kill him again? He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to have to think about it, so here they were: Castiel over at his outlook again with his back to him, and Dean plopped against the tree trunk, half-heartedly thinking of words to describe silence.

Mostly, it just made him miss the vampires, the irony of which did not escape him. (They, after all, had tried to eat him too, and he wasn’t holding it against them.) But it had been nice watching them while the venom slowly faded from his system, the kids far livelier than they had been earlier. That was the power of a full belly, and Dean had happily watched them playing: Drake pouncing on a shoelace Benny dragged around in the dirt for him; Elpis and Sophia playing some sort of Jacks game, but with a stone instead of a ball. And with Drake giggling every time he caught the string, and Elpis grinning when she snatched up her sticks before the stone hit dirt, Dean had found himself smiling. It had felt good to help them, even in such a small way.

The matriarch had been pleased too, a half-smile on her lips that didn’t fade when she had noticed Dean was awake. Dean hadn’t been able to move much yet, so she had approached him instead, bending down so they were eye-to-eye. “You’re awake,” she had commented as she looked him over, and then shook her head. “You really do handle our venom well.”

Anywhere else, that kind of statement would have insinuated some not-so-good things, but Dean knew she was impressed. Her smile had faded then, expression growing more serious. “You should be able to move soon — our children’s bites aren’t nearly as potent,” she said, and then looked over at Castiel, who had stepped away when she approached. “When you are ready to leave, cover your tracks well. He still smells of the werewolf, but the demons know your scent well, Angel.”

If Dean could have, he would have tensed then. Wait, was she assuming Castiel would _stay_ with him? Though he hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead, he was pretty sure they hadn’t decided that yet ... and judging by how Castiel _had_ tensed, he had been just as surprised by said assumption. He briefly met Dean’s gaze, and Dean knew he was thinking the same exact thing: Why would he let him stay?

To the matriarch, however, he gave a quick nod, and then looked away.

She hadn’t seemed to notice the awkward exchange between them, looking back at her family. Dean saw Benny look up and meet her gaze, and it seemed to be a silent signal, as he turned to the children and told them it was time to go. It seemed a routine, as Elpis and Sophia both started scooping up dirt and pine needles, patting it on their clothes. Benny was doing the same for Drake and himself, the boy giggling again as he batted at the pine needles that rained around him. They were using it to mask their scent, Dean had realized. Smart, really — the demons would have difficulty differentiating their scent from the pine — and it was something he needed to consider when it was his time for him to leave.

Andrea turned back, her eye settling over on Castiel again. The angel had had gone back to his overlook without Dean even noticing, and he frowned at that, only to glance back when the matriarch spoke again.

“He always looked out for all of us, in his own way,” she had murmured. Her expression was pensive as she gazed at the angel, but before he could ask what she meant, she glanced back at him. “Look out for him.”

Again, if Dean could, he would have tensed, though his heart did start to pound. They were such simple words — _look out for him —_ but there was far too much wrapped around in that for him for it to be anything but simple. He felt a flash of anger, and part of him wanted to tell Andrea to just take Castiel with her — they were friends, right? His focus was on finding Sam, not looking out for angels who weren’t strong enough to look out for themselves, especially one he couldn’t even trust not to _eat him_.

And the other part …?

Dean had glanced at Castiel, and his anger had faded. Still on his mind were thoughts on the angel who had saved him once, all warm smiles and promises of _It’s okay._

And that was how he found himself giving the best nod he could, like Castiel had, which earned him another half-smile. Dean glanced over at the others afterward: Elpis holding Benny’s hand, Drake draped around his legs, Sophia at his side. With their bandages and injuries and two kids to boot, Dean didn’t know how easy it would be for the vampires to travel. He felt a flash of worry — would the kids be alright? Would their injuries slow them down? — and he had glanced back at Andrea.

“Keep them safe?” he had asked her, and she gave him her own nod.

“Always,” she promised.

The vampires headed out not long after — Benny giving Dean a mock salute, Drake waving at him and Elpis giving him a shy look before turning away — off to wait for the boat at the bay. At that left him with his silence, and Dean still having no word to describe it.

 _Sad,_ he thought after a moment. Yes, that seemed like a good word.

But he wasn’t one for silences, awkward or otherwise, so he focused on just _moving._ Things were starting to come back to him, his fingers twitching when he tried shifting his hand. _Good_ , he thought. Once that came back, he would bandage his wrists up and—

That was how he noticed his wrists were already bandaged.

It wasn’t even a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but Dean found that he couldn’t stop staring at them. And while it was just as possible for the vampires to have done it for him, he didn’t think so, and he glanced over at Castiel again.

If he had tended to his wounds for him, it wouldn’t have been the angel’s first time doing it. Dean remembered lying in the mud with an ankle that had bled pretty badly, Castiel tending to it even though medics had been on their way. He didn’t have to do it — he had been leading a military campaign after all, but two angels who had flown down to join them gave him updates on his troops’ positions while he worked. Castiel had spoken to them in Enochian as he used a small knife to slice into the denim of Dean’s jeans, peeling the strips back to look at his ankle. He had probed it gently, too, fingers refreshingly cool against Dean’s inflamed, swollen skin.

“Is he okay?” Sam had asked worriedly, and Dean had fought through the haze of pain and wonder to look down at his ankle. (He had been touching Castiel’s wings, he remembered, a little embarrassed now. They had just been so _soft_ , and Castiel hadn’t seemed to mind.)

“It looks broken, and we need to stop the bleeding,” Castiel had replied, and then looked up at Sam, giving him a smile. “I may be in need of your shirt. May I borrow part of it?”

Sam had nearly thrown his shirt at Castiel in his haste to give it to him, and Dean had watched as the angel had removed the sleeves with his knife in two quick strokes. The first one he had used to put pressure on his wounds; the second he used to wrap his ankle up as gently as he could when the bleeding stopped. Dean remembered how amazed he had been by that, that an _angel_ would know how to diagnose and treat wounds too. Anyone else might have had Dean walk it off, but Castiel didn’t even do that: He had been the one to lift him onto the stretcher when the human medics arrived, with a promise to both of them that he’d bring their family back.

And he had: They had been reunited with Dad and Bobby not longer after, and the rest was history. Castiel had gone on to win the war, and for as crazy as things got afterward (his dad hadn’t handled the return to civilian life well), Dean had never forgotten what that moment had meant to him. It inspired him to keep helping people too: first as a combat medic in the military, and then working toward his degree to so he could become a registered nurse. All because of one moment in the forest, when he had been terrified of dying and an angel had saved his life.

But now he was on this island, just staring at his wrists, and he didn’t know how to feel anymore.

Castiel wasn’t the angel from Dean’s memories; he wasn't angel he wanted him to be. He wasn’t here to make everything okay, as much as Dean wanted him to. So what was he? A lonely angel, according to the vampires. A lost, broken angel who had been tortured and starved and left alone; told he was nothing more than an animal, nothing more than _meat._

But …

Dean’s hands moved when he wanted to, and he reached over to touch his bandaged wrists, the gauze wrapped as neatly as his ankle had once been.

Maybe the angel he knew was still in there, somewhere. And maybe he owed it to Castiel to try believing that he was.

_Look out for him._

Except Dean still wasn’t good with silences, and he still needed to get moving. The last of the venom was starting to fade away, and with it gone, the pain returned. He winced when his knee flared up; his ribs were thankfully not as bad, but with his neck and wrists aching too and his head woozy from blood loss, he kind of wished the venom had lasted longer. He worked past it, however, tugging his sleeves down and then reach for his discarded jacket. His bag was next, and then his weapons, and then came the whole _standing_ thing. _On your feet, soldier,_ he thought as he started to push up. _On your feet…_

It was when he was upright that Castiel spoke up, Dean looking over at him in surprise.

“I will… go,” the angel said slowly, his voice rougher than Dean had ever heard before. He wasn’t quite looking at him, his eyes glued to a spot on the ground. “I… can go find the daemons and keep them from tracking you while you travel to the ghost’s forest.”

That was the last thing Dean had expected him to say — not that he expected him to say anything — and for a moment, he was confused. All this time he had thought Castiel wanted to stay with him … he hadn’t thought that the angel wouldn’t, which why _would_ he stay? That left Dean feeling stupid and then embarrassed — hell, the matriarch had called that one wrong, hadn’t she? What had he even been _thinking_ …?

But then he looked at Castiel. _Really_ looked at him, and noticed his quivering feathers, and hands curled into fists at his side, knuckles white. His chest was heaving too, tense as if he was waiting for a blow that would come out of nowhere, and Dean hesitated.

He didn’t know if Castiel wanted to go, or if he wanted to stay but assumed Dean wouldn’t let him. But last time Dean had seen Castiel like this, he had been offering to die for him, and _go find the demons_ sounded an awful like _holding off vampires_ , but the former had far more deadlier results.

But Dean only had one thought about that: he was _not_ letting the angel die for him. Even if that meant breaking awkward, deafening, painful, pathetic and sad silences to do it.

“Sure,” he found himself saying, and Castiel stiffened again. Dean swallowed again, yet found the words. “But... I don’t really know where I’m going. I could… I could use a guide.”

Castiel’s head jerked toward him, eyes wide in surprise. He just stared at Dean for a long moment, before his brow creased as his head started to shake from side-to-side. “ _No,_ ” he said, wings rustling as he turned to face Dean. His eyes filled with guilt and shame, and he shook his head harder. “ _No._ I almost let them… If you hadn’t… I _almost_ killed you, Dean.”

Dean flinched. He would always remember that: Castiel watching emotionlessly as the vampires had dragged him away. And he almost gave in then: almost yelled at Castiel for not being how an angel was supposed to be, to just _go_ already. It took everything in Dean to force that back, to hiss through gritted teeth, “I… I don’t _care_.”

It was a lie, a horribly obvious lie, and they both knew it. Castiel stared at Dean in disbelief again, while he himself looked away, clenching hands at his side. _Fuck,_ he was not good at this shit, and he sucked in a breath to find the strength to keep going.

“All I care about is finding my brother,” he told Castiel, which _was_ true, no disputing that. He looked back at the angel, and it was mostly the truth when he said, “That’s all that matters to me.”

Castiel stared at him again, dozens of emotions flitting through his eyes. But then he shook his head once more, protesting with another, “ _Dean_.”

Dean felt another flash of anger: He did not have time for stubborn angels. “ _Castiel,”_ he snapped, and the angel shut up, looking up again with wide eyes. The anger faded quickly as it came, and Dean sighed, suddenly _exhausted_. He didn’t want to fight anymore; he just wanted to get everyone _home_ and safe _,_ guilt-ridden and lonely angels included. _That_ was all that mattered to him, really. “Just… Just help me find my brother, Castiel.”

The angel turned his head away, staring out at the island once more. Dean couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he tensed when Castiel looked back at him. The angel’s pupils had slitted, and Dean could see it in his eyes again, that vast emptiness, an abyss that could and would swallow him whole. He knew its name now too, and he was unable to look away as Castiel hissed, “I do not… I do not know if I can be _trusted_ , Dean. That I won’t give in again.”

Dean swallowed, and thought of his bandaged wrists, an angel who had fought off demons, werewolves and vampires for him, and an angel who once told him everything would be okay. And that gave him the strength to say and mean his next words.

“I believe in you,” he whispered.

Castiel stiffened, and with a blink, his eyes were back to normal. He looked away once more, his wings quivering and fists clenching again. It was the most emotional Dean had ever seen him, and it hurt that it had to be about _this._

When he finally looked back at Dean, there was a sheen to his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Alright,” he whispered, as he nodded. “Alright.”

Dean sighed, and nodded himself. Things between them were still awkward, still painful, probably still pathetic, just as sad… but it wasn’t deafening, at least.

They could go from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Hunted_ has fan art! ~~Along with other fan art I shall tell you about one day.~~ Check out this [great graphic](http://whatwehaveisprettymessedup.tumblr.com/post/117930531795/the-hunted-ao3-on-an-island-where-people-are) from Nikhitha or [whatwehaveisprettymessedup](http://whatwehaveisprettymessedup.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. I adore it!


	18. Chapter 18

“Alright,” Dean said as he examined his assault rifle, checking for any signs of damage. Castiel, standing across from him, watched the movement of his hands. “Where is this place again?”

“It is the forest on the northwest side of the island,” Castiel replied, and Dean let out a pained groan. That was right: It was in the complete opposite direction of where they were now. _Of course it was._ Castiel’s brow creased and, after a moment (and possibly for Dean’s lack of enthusiasm), added, “I will show you the quickest route there.”

Dean snorted. The fastest way there would be to follow the river, if his mental map was right. “How’s that? By river rafting?”

Castiel opened his mouth and then hesitated, brow knitting as if he had never thought about that before. Dean tried not to roll his eyes as Castiel murmured, “No, that would not be wise. I cannot swim well, and the current is too loud. I would not be able to hear anything.”

 _That was a joke,_ Dean was about to point out, but paused. Angels couldn't swim? he thought while Castiel went on. “There is a quicker way, as well: Through the meadow. It’ll take several hours, but we should reach the forest before nightfall.”

Dean consulted the mental maps in his head again, remembering that the meadow took up the majority of the southwest side of the island. “Isn’t that a bit out in the open?”

Castiel gave a slight shake of his head. “Much of the meadow is wetland, and the grass is overgrown. The water will cover our scent, and I will be able to hear anything before it gets too close.”

Dean had to give him that, and it was a good reminder of why Castiel was a good ally. He finished his exam — all good — and slid the rifle’s strap over his shoulder. “Alright, this forest then: The vamps seemed surprised that Sam would be there. Why? What’s the ghost and why does it have its own forest?”

The vampires had given him half-answers about it: That it was just a name they had for it; it was a _long_ story. Whatever the truth actually was, when it made Castiel tense and his wings rustle, Dean knew it couldn’t be good.

“There was…” the angel began, meeting Dean’s eyes before looking away. “There was a creature that used to live there. It was an excellent mimic, and it would use voices or sounds to lure in its prey: the lycanthrope’s howl, the vampirs that had died, the sounds of...”

He trailed off, while Dean slowly frowned. What species could do _that?_ he wondered. It had clearly mimicked something Castiel didn’t like too, but whatever it was, the angel didn’t say. Castiel was quick to collect himself, and continued. “That is why it was called the ghost. It would mimic those voices, and then attacked whomever came to investigate. It was fast too; faster than I ever could be, even. I had never seen anything like it.”

Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. What in the world was faster than an _angel_? And Sam was _living_ in its forest?! “Is it still there?” he asked quickly, and Castiel glanced at him.

“No.” The angel’s eyes held no emotion. “I killed it.”

Dean’s mouth clicked shut, and then he glanced Castiel over twice. Damn, you just did not fuck with angels, he thought, but caught himself before he licked his lips. _Angel fetish_ , he reminded himself, and then sighed. At least, whatever this ghost was was dead, and not a threat to Sam … but what was it?

“It is odd that the vampirs say they can still smell the ghost,” Castiel continued, brow creasing. “From what I’ve seen, no one goes into the forest ... but I never realized it was because they thought it was still there.”

His brow furrowed more, expression thoughtful; after Dean murmured “what is it?”, Castiel looked up at him. “If there is a haven on this island, Dean... the ghost’s forest is it. For your brother to be there… it is quite a coincidence.”

And that sealed it for Dean: Sam was smart, crafty and observant as all hell, and noticing a place that everyone else avoided? He’d be all over that. Dean chuckled, Castiel cocking his head. “Cas,” he said with a grin and a wink. “One thing you gotta’ know about my brother: He doesn’t do coincidences. Anything else we need to know?”

Castiel didn’t reply right away, a look on his face that Dean couldn’t quite figure out. Surprise? Wonder? He lifted an eyebrow at him, which was when Castiel blinked, and then gave a slight shake of his head. “No.”

 _Right,_ Dean thought, not sure what that had been about. That left only one thing to discuss, and Dean hesitated, knowing it wasn’t going to go down well. He scratched at two days worth of stubble on his chin before muttering, “While we’re moving out, Castiel… we gotta’ find you something to eat.”

As he’d expected, Castiel tensed, and looked away again. “I am fine, Dean.”

Dean didn’t want to argue the point, mostly because he didn’t want to say _I can’t have you trying to eat me again_. But he couldn’t just have Castiel dismiss it like that either. “Castiel…” he began and the angel’s lips twitched in a wince.

“F-Food is scarce, Dean,” he said, and glanced back at him. “It would take time to find and gather.”

Dean swallowed. What had the matriarch said Castiel had been eating? Tree bark and mushrooms for the past few weeks? While he had no real idea _how_ those could be edible in the best of circumstances, he also knew they did not make for a full, fulfilling meal. And Castiel hadn’t exactly been conserving calories, what with his walking and fighting his way across the island; how he was even standing, Dean didn’t know.

There was a limit to that, however, though Dean did wonder if Castiel would just keep going until he couldn’t anymore. It was not comforting at all, and _fuck:_ What he would have given to get Cas some food right now. But he didn't have anything, not even in his stolen bag. The demons didn't carry food with them, at least not the low-ranking ones they had run into. It was an old practice left over from the war, only the captains holding onto the food: It kept the others in line, knowing they had to respect the person that would provide their next meal.

 _Fucking demons,_ Dean thought. They couldn't be like humans, and let their soldiers have some MREs in their bags...

But he had to make do with what he didn't have, and if he and Castiel were going to do this, he was laying down ground rules. He jerked a finger toward Castiel and muttered, “If we find anything that is remotely more edible than tree bark and mushrooms, you are stopping and eating.”

Castiel nodded slowly, and while Dean hated that they had to leave it at that, he pushed it aside. He looked out toward the island, where the sky was starting to lighten as dawn arrived. “Alright, let’s head out then.”

* * *

Dean had never realized how much harder it was to walk down a mountain than it was to climb it, _especially_ with an aching knee. The ground was loose and wet with snow, pain shooting up from his knee every time his footing wasn’t firm and he ended up sliding a little. But where he had to brace himself on every tree and large rock on the way down, Castiel walked with ease, no slipping or sliding for him. He really was fucking Legolas, Dean thought with an annoyed grunt.

Envy didn’t suit him; Dean’s knee buckled with pain on his next step, and while he hissed and cursed, the ground gave way beneath him. With a _sonofabitch,_ he started to slide, arms flailing to grab anything that would keep him from tumbling down the mountain.

Castiel caught him, Dean finding himself face-to-face with the angel. With his steel grip on his arm, he kept him upright, even as Dean’s feet continued to slide. It took Dean a few moments to steady himself, and the entire time he stared at Castiel.

Geez, how the hell could he be so strong? he wondered, looking from the angel’s eyes down. Catching him mid-slide with no effort and—

“May… May I offer you assistance?” Castiel asked. It briefly threw Dean — and made him stop staring at Castiel’s lips — before he realized what the angel was asking. A wave of embarrassment engulfed him: one, for getting caught up in his damned angel fetish again (he seriously needed to get that together), and two, because Castiel had just offered to help him _walk_.

Dean fought a pout. It was bad enough the angel already had to do that for him when they were trying to flee the werewolf; it was worse when Castiel had to _ask_. But Dean’s indignant response of “ _no_ ” was cut off when another stab of pain lanced through his knee to the tune of _fuck you_.

After a quick look down the mountain to see how far they still had to go, he pouted for real this time, then cursed and, with another wave of embarrassment, gave in. “Fine,” he grumbled, shooting Castiel a glare even as he hobbled closer to him. “But I want to make it clear: I ain’t a damsel-in-distress.”

“Of course not,” the angel replied while he drew Dean’s arm over his shoulder, “You are clearly a human male in distress.”

In his monotone voice, it was hard to tell if Castiel was being completely serious, or making a joke. Dean faltered, watching the angel adjust to accommodating his weight, finishing up with a hand on his waist and a wing shifting to rest against Dean’s back, too. He was very focused, which left Dean feeling that, of the two, Castiel had been serious. And _that_ was… well, kind of sad.

“That was a joke, Cas,” he pointed out, and Castiel looked over at him curiously.

“What was?”

Dean grimaced. He knew explaining jokes usually meant they weren’t funny, but when the guy was missing the cues altogether? “The damsel-in-distress thing, that was a…” he trailed off, and then huffed. “Alright, fine, it was more like self-depreciating humor. It was a roundabout way of me saying I’m not actually weak.”

Castiel’s expression grew confused. “You are not weak, Dean,” he murmured, and Dean lifted an eyebrow.

“Uh. In case you didn't notice, you are kinda carrying me around right now.”

Castiel shook his head. "You are injured. That is not a weakness," he murmured, and then glanced away. "And I did not mean physical weakness either."

That shut Dean up, his cheeks growing hot. It wasn’t often that someone complimented him, but from Castiel, it was… Well, Dean didn’t know what to do with that. His heart did a weird floppy thing, and if Castiel noticed his embarrassment, he didn’t show it.

He simply moved on, and Dean had to admit, it was easier to walk down the mountain when the angel knew where to step without sending rocks tumbling. His feet were bare though, and Dean had the strangest desire to look at them and see if they hurt, which was when Castiel murmured, “Forgive me. It… it has been a long time since I’ve heard a joke.”

Dean looked over at him at that. _It has been a long time since I’ve heard laughter,_ Castiel had told him earlier and the reminder made Dean grimace. It seemed like nothing really — laughter and jokes — but to not _hear_ them for two-plus years? Worse, Castiel had no one to talk to, let alone joke around with. He had been on his own, all this time.

What was it even like to be that alone? Dean wondered. Did you end up forgetting things? What laughter sounded like, what jokes were?

Did you forget you were a person?

Dean didn’t want to think about it, and as he usually joked around when he was uncomfortable, for once that was to his benefit. “Well, you are in luck today, Cas,” he chirped with a grin, and Castiel glanced at him. “ _I_ am a comedic genius. Let’s start with a classic: Knock Knock.”

Castiel didn’t respond for a long moment, and in the ensuing awkward silence, Dean realized the stupidity of his choice. He was about call the whole thing a joke in itself, when the angel frowned thoughtfully. “Is that the one with the oranges?” he asked.

Dean barked out a laugh, and it made even funnier when it scared the crap out of Castiel. His wings did a fluttering thing and his eyes widened, but Dean was giggling too hard to apologize. It was just _too funny_ to think of an angel being subjected to the "orange you glad I didn’t say banana?" punchline — some poor kid had probably got himself smote for that — and Dean had to wipe a tear from his eye. Castiel was staring at him with a look of bewildered awe on his face when Dean looked back at him.

“Yeah, it can be," he said, unable to stop grinning. "And okay, maybe that one was a bad one to start with. Fuck, Cas, I know several dozen ‘a-vampire-a-demon-and-a-werewolf-walk-into-a-bar’ ones. Wanna’ hear ‘em?”

“Yes,” Castiel said without hesitation, and Dean grinned wide.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he drawled, and then added, just in case, “And this is me warning you that I am about to tell some terrible jokes, by the way.”

Castiel gave him what Dean could only describe as a ‘serious-business’ nod; it made him snort with laughter again.

“Alright, so a vampire, a werewolf and a demon walk into a bar,” he began, and while Castiel didn’t laugh at any of his jokes, he listened with a rapt attention that Dean kind of liked. Sam would have just rolled his eyes at any joke he made, Jess would have given him one of her looks, Bobby didn’t have a sense of humor to speak of, and the girls were too young to appreciate anything except that snowman from that one movie getting impaled. It was nice, having an audience that didn't mind his jokes.

And, Dean realized, it had been a long time since he had joked around — not since Sam disappeared anyway. His heart did another one of its weird flops — wow, he missed just joking around, and Cas was giving that to him — and he ended up stuttering on the punchline of a truly terrible joke.

Thankfully, Castiel again didn’t seem to notice.

* * *

By the time they made it to the meadow, Dean had barely made a dent in his joke arsenal. But when he caught the scent and sight of water, rivulets and pools fed by the nearby river, he stumbled over the punchline of a joke again, his brain short-circuiting a little. He suddenly, intensely realized he was thirsty as all hell, and Castiel either had the same idea already or he read Dean’s mind yelling “water!” He helped him to sit down by the water’s edge next to some reeds and rocks, looking around while Dean retrieved the empty water bottle from his bag with shaky hands. The water was freezing when he dipped his hand in, but the gurgling of the bottle being filled more than made up for the discomfort.

Dean offered the bottle to Castiel first, but the angel let him have it, crouching down so he could dip his hands into another pool and wash them. “Suit yourself,” Dean muttered before downing half the bottle in one go, and then pulled it back with a gasp and a pleased groan. “Fuck, who knew water could taste so damn good?”

Castiel finished up with his hands, and took the bottle when Dean offered it again. He took his own long pull and, when he lowered it, he looked down at the bottle thoughtfully. “It’s much easier to drink from one of these,” he remarked, and Dean tried not to grimace at that.

“A true modern luxury there,” he joked, stretching out his knee, which popped loudly. The pain faded after a moment, and Dean settled back against the rock to sigh in relief and drink more water. Though the sun was nothing but a dull circle behind heavy cloud cover, it was the first time he had seen Castiel in the light since the morning before, and he took stock of them both. The angel's lip was split, and there was bruising on his torso from where the werewolf had thrown him around; Dean had a matching set of bruises on his own chest, along with everything else. Though Castiel was alert — and far more than Dean was being, he had to be honest — he looked out at the meadow with tired, half-lidded eyes, and it reminded Dean that it had been more than forty-eight hours since he had really slept. (Naps brought on by vampire venom really didn't count in his book.) It was quite possibly the same for Castiel too, and that had Dean huffing with laughter.

 _What a pair we make,_ he thought, rubbing at his stubble again: both injured, both exhausted, both looking like complete shit.

But Dean found that he didn’t mind, his shoulders far more lighter than they had been in months really. He looked out at the meadow, rows of water spreading through miles of tall brown reeds and grass, patches of snow and young trees lining banks. It had a great view too: on one side the mountain, towering above them and topped with snow; the other the tree line of the ghost's forest, dark and green. It seemed peaceful, calm, reminding Dean of a lake from so many years ago. “This looks like a place I used to take Sam fishing,” he murmured.

Castiel looked over at him, expression thoughtful. “There were fish here, not too long ago.”

The vampires had mentioned that, and Dean remembered the smiling fish-shaped sign back in town that read _Okhotnik: Chinook Salmon Capitol of the World!_  “Salmon?" he asked.

When Castiel nodded, Dean let out a snort. He wasn’t much of a fish guy unless they were beer-battered and fried, but not his brother _._ “I wonder if Sam knew about it. He’s such a health freak; he probably jumped at the chance for fresh, wild-caught fish.”

“They _were_ good,” Castiel agreed, and then looked toward the water. His wings rustled, his expression growing almost… gentle, Dean thought. “There were _so many,_ too _._ They would spawn here in the calm water, but you could meet them at the river as they swam upstream, and catch them mid-air.”

Dean had to hide a grin at that mental image: Castiel like one of those bears in nature shows, waist-deep in rushing water, using his blade to spear fish flying at him. “I spend most of the year here,” the angel went on, voice soft. “There’s usually plenty of food, and the water covers my scent, so I cannot be easily tracked. It is beautiful in the spring and summer, too, when all the flowers have bloomed and the birds return. It always reminded me of…”

He trailed off, and Dean grew concerned when Castiel’s half-asleep expression faded away for a confused frown. “Cas?” he prompted, and Castiel’s eyes flickered over the meadow again before he looked back at him.

“This meadow, it reminds me of… my garden,” he murmured, head tilting like he couldn’t believe it. “I had a garden. On the rooftop of my family's home. I... I used to raise bees.”

Dean tried not to grow  _too_ concerned by the admission. “Did you forget that?” he asked carefully.

Castiel thought that question over for a long moment, which didn’t help Dean’s concern levels any. “Yes… and no,” he finally murmured, before he looked back at Dean, brow creasing. “It feels like something from a dream. Does that make sense?"

The fact that it did didn’t surprise Dean, but he suddenly understood Castiel’s confusion. Thinking about his own life before Sam had disappeared seemed like exactly that: a dream. But this was different too: He had seen Castiel like this before, when it seemed he had been struggling to remember details of his own past. _“You are really here, aren't you?"_ Castiel had asked him then, and that still sent chills down Dean’s spine. _“But if you are real, then the rest … the rest isn’t a dream.”_

Yet, Castiel didn’t seem bothered by it. Confused, maybe, but not bothered. He had forgotten he had used to raise bees, and that his whole life hadn’t been a dream. Or that he hadn't heard laughter or a joke in a long time. And that had Dean narrowing his eyes, feeling a flash of irritation.

“How are you not angry, Cas?”

Castiel’s brow creased as he looked back at him. “Angry?” he repeated.

“Yes!” Dean waved a hand, frustrated. “For what Dick’s done to you! For torturing you and making you starve and hunting you and making you _forget._ For making you think you’re just—”

 _Meat_. He stopped himself from yelling that out loud just in time, but Castiel was so tense he might as well have said it. Dean swallowed quickly. _Good going, idjit,_ he chastised himself — he already knew that stuff upset Castiel. When the matriarch had reminded him about it, Castiel had been shaken up by it. And really, how could he expect Castiel to be angry? He could barely remember what it was like to be a person.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, and looked away.

It was possible he had started up another round of awkward, painful silences between them again too, another thing he chastised himself for. So it was a bit of a surprise for Dean when Castiel spoke up.

“Would you... Would you tell me another joke?” he asked gently.

Dean glanced over. Castiel wasn't looking at him, staring into the water, where his reflection was dark thanks to the cloud cover. He hadn't exactly relaxed either, hands clenched together where they hung under his knees, but his breathing was calmer than Dean had seen it before.

Dean had no idea what to make of the request, and suddenly, his jokes didn't seem that funny. Still, he had to ask. “More terrible ones, you mean?” 

“I wouldn’t know if they were terrible,” Castiel replied, and then glanced up at him. His expression was pensive, but mostly just tired. “But I like hearing you laugh.”

This time, when Dean's heart did its little flop, it was mixed with a lot of guilt and remorse. But he found it in him to start in on another joke, because it was for Castiel. "So a vampire, werewolf and demon walk into a bar..."


	19. Chapter 19

Castiel grew more and more distracted the closer they got to the ghost’s forest. While he was still listening to Dean’s jokes-turned-dumb-stories, his eyes were constantly drawn back toward the looming tree line, and soon he couldn’t even look away. It was like he was mesmerized... and Dean had no idea what to make of it.

He didn't ask or comment though. Having already stuck his foot in his mouth earlier, Dean decided it was best not to. Instead, while limping alongside Castiel, he kept on with his tales from his childhood and army days, and hoped it was nice background noise to whatever the angel was thinking about. ("So the chief medic goes, _'Great work taking down the enemy combatants, Son, but sewing someone up with dental floss doesn't exactly meet army regulations._ '"). But he trailed off halfway through the story when they took their first steps into infamous forest, and he got his first glimpse of its dark depths.

The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was... quiet in a way that he almost expected rockets to roar overhead at any minute. Sound seemed muted among the trees, fog thick and heavy as it seeped between branches dusted the snow. The trees were older: massive trunks covered in moss; branches close together and shielding out what light there was. Large roots were lost in a sea of ferns, and the soft undergrowth masked the sounds of his feet as he hobbled along. What open areas there were were covered in fresh snow, each breath visible in the cold air. It reminded Dean of stories of people knowing ghosts were around when they could see their own breath... Not a comforting thought in a place called _Ghost Forest._

The absence of life unnerved him like always, but the fog and the lack of sound made him just as uneasy as he looked around again. The forest reminded him of something from a horror film; the fact that a creature that was faster than an angel once lived here added to the creepiness factor too. With the fog and trees as cover, any predator could easily sneak up on prey, which presented a problem for them: Dean already knew finding signs of Sam was going to be difficult, but would they be able to see or hear anyone coming?

“How good is your hearing?” Dean joked as he looked back at Castiel, but his grin fell when he saw how tense the angel was. Instantly on alert, Dean snapped his gun up and scanned for danger; when nothing came, he glanced back at the angel, prompting, “Cas?”

That made Castiel start, and he blinked twice as he glanced at him. He took in the sight of Dean with his weapon drawn, and then gave a slight shake of his head. “There’s nothing,” he said, but despite his claim otherwise, he was still stiff as a board. Dean quirked an eyebrow in reply, a silent yet concerned question of _What’s wrong_?

When Castiel looked away, Dean’s concern only grew. “My apologies,” the angel murmured, his voice monotone as he glanced out at the trees. “This forest… I do not like it.”

If Dean hadn’t already noticed Castiel’s unease, he wouldn’t have blamed him; to think there was a predator in the world that was faster than an angel… and what had Castiel said? It mimicked voices to lure in its prey? But Castiel had killed whatever it was, which Dean was about to remind the angel of that. Only he hesitated then, realizing something. 

The angel’s words came back to him: _“It would mimic voices and sounds: the lycanthrope’s howl, the vampirs’ that had died, the sounds of—”_  

Castiel had cut himself after that, and it hit Dean right then _why_ he had. He looked over at Castiel in shock, heart pounding.

“It talked to you, didn’t it?" he asked. “The ghost.”

Castiel’s eyes jerked back to his. Surprise was written all over his face, like he couldn’t believe Dean had put two-and-two together. “Yes,” he breathed, and Dean could only think  _fucking hell_. But his heart stopped when Castiel added softly, “It called to me in Enochian.”

Enochian was the language of the angels, difficult as all hell to learn, let alone pronounce. (Dean knew how difficult it was personally: Mix up your ‘za’s or ‘ba’s,’ and the next moment, you were telling someone they bred with the mouth of a goat). For some random creature to have learned the language without extensive study seemed next to impossible... yet Dean had to ask anyway. “Were you speaking Enochian?” Could the ghost have picked it up from him?

Castiel shook his head. “Not here,” he murmured, and Dean’s stomach dropped.

 _Son of a bitch_ , he thought. That meant Castiel had heard the ghost speaking Enochian and had thought it was another angel, hadn’t he? (Fuck, did that mean there had been _other_ angels on this island?) Had he followed the voice right into this creepy ass forest where anything could hide in the fog? And the creature — which was faster than an angel, _Castiel had never seen anything like it_ — had it...?

"Did it..." Dean started to ask, watching as Castiel grew tense again. "Did it attack you?"

Castiel didn't answer, not that he needed to. He looked away from him instead, and Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. Fuck. He couldn't even imagine it: Castiel, who was _alone_ on this island... and then hearing another angel. Only to then be attacked... That was _beyond_ cruel. _  
_

And had the ghost managed to hurt him too? On that thought, Dean’s eyes fell to the three large scars on Castiel’s chest. He had assumed they were from the werewolf, but since then, Dean had seen Castiel take down a werewolf and vampires within seconds, receiving only minor injuries. It was only when the angel's guard was down that anyone got a blow in, but what a strike it must have been to leave scars like _those_ on Castiel’s chest…

Castiel seemed to noticed he was staring at his scars, and then, to Dean’s surprise, he shifted away so they were out of sight. Dean looked up at the angel with a frown, only to find Castiel still wasn’t looking at him, head ducked low so he couldn't see his face.

“Cas?” he asked, worriedly. Was the angel  _hiding_ his scars? Why was he hiding them?

Castiel didn't answer right away, Dean growing worried when he started quivering. “You asked earlier… Why… Why I wasn’t angry,” he said then, and Dean frowned again. The subject change confused him: Wait, had Castiel been thinking about that all this time? “But I was... once. I was so… So…”

The angel looked up at him then; Dean stiffened when he saw Castiel’s slitted pupils, his teeth bared. “I was so _angry_ ,” he practically snarled, fists clenching at his side. "I was so,  _so_ angry."

Dean fought the urge to take a step back. He had seen Castiel frustrated; Dean had seen Castiel sad. But this was different — Dean could almost _feel_ his anger pouring off him — and he briefly wondered if a mad Castiel was a good thing. The angel was breathing hard, wings flaring out and entire body vibrating as he struggled with his words.

“The daemons… They kept me in the dark. They kept me in _chains_ ,” he hissed through his bared teeth. Dean winced at that, but the angel wasn't done. “They _hurt me_. They took my sword. They  _took my wings_. They took _so much._ And when they released me… I… I killed _so many_   _of them_ for it.”

Dean swallowed. Castiel had his sword back now, but Dean almost didn’t want to think about what had happened to the demon who had been had it at the time. He had also seen what Castiel could do without a weapon: snapping demons’ necks; breaking bones with powerful kicks. It wasn’t too hard to imagine Castiel, fresh out of his prison, taking out whole patrols of demons before they even knew what hit them.

Castiel confirmed that too. “They called me _angel,_ like we call the monster _monster_ ,” he went on, and Dean winced again. The demons must have been _terrified._ “I went after them as often as I could. Sometimes… Sometimes I left a few of them alive for the vampirs or the lycanthropes to finish off, for the daemons had hurt them too. I wanted them to know our pain, and I did. I _did._ But then… But then…”

He trailed off, his gaze shifting over to the forest. The anger in his eyes faded slowly, a haunted look replacing it as his entire body went still. “Then I heard one of my own call to me from this forest,” he whispered. “And... I came here.”

Dean cringed. He could almost see it, like a horror film playing inside his head: Castiel, without his scars yet, drawn in to this forest; brimming with hope at finding another angel; thinking he was no longer _alone_. But what had he found instead? A ghost, who had attacked him — ripped open his chest, sending blood flying everywhere. The impact must have so powerful that Dean wondered if Castiel had even known what had hit him. How much precious time had he spent just trying to understand what had happened? How had the shock from the impact and blood loss slowed him down, made him incapable of moving? And the whole time, the ghost had probably loomed over him, ready to make him his next meal.

“But you killed it,” Dean heard himself say from far away, as if that was any comfort.

Castiel looked away from him again. “I can’t even remember how... where I found the strength,” he murmured, and the pain in his voice made Dean cringe again. “I was so weak afterward. There were some days it took everything in me just to crawl the few feet to the stream that was nearby. I almost starved. I thought… I thought I was going to die.”

And it was a miracle he hadn’t, Dean realized — if the blood loss hadn’t killed him, an infection easily could have. How Castiel had survived his wounds, he didn’t know, but he imagined it hadn't been pretty. The medic side of him just cringed at the thought of not being able to treat them.

“After that... After that…” Castiel whispered, his eyes slowly returning to normal. His voice was empty and soft. "I wasn't angry anymore."

Dean winced again. _Fuck,_ he thought. He had enough brushes with his own mortality to know something like that changed you, and not always for the better. But this was different: Castiel had thought there were other angels on the island... There must have been if this ghost knew Enochian. Had that broken Castiel? Dean wondered. Him thinking he was no longer alone, only to have his hopes crushed in worst possible way? Had he realized there may have been other angels on the island who _hadn't_ survived the ghost? That there was only one way to escape this island? Was that when Castiel first thought he was an animal? That he was just  _meat?_

And everything that must have meant, everything that it must have took from Castiel at that moment... Something that still haunted him, if the look in his eyes were any indication.

Dean couldn’t help it: He reached out without thinking, placing his hand on Castiel’s arm, wanting so badly to provide what comfort he could.

He almost jerked away because of the angel’s reaction: Castiel’s head shot up and he looked back at Dean in surprise. Then his eyes filled with a mixture of desperation and something else that Dean couldn’t name. But it was quickly replaced by pain and guilt, Castiel looking away again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough.

That threw Dean so much that he was almost wasn’t sure if he had heard him correctly. What the hell was Castiel _apologizing_  for?

“Why?” he asked, beyond confused.

Castiel closed his eyes, but his voice betrayed everything that he was feeling. “For not being as strong as you wish me to be, Dean.”

Nothing else Castiel could have said would have left Dean so speechless. It made no sense: Of course he thought Castiel was _strong._  What the hell was he talking about? Whatever it was, Dean was not going to let him keep thinking _that_.

“You _are_ strong, Cas,” he snapped, and Castiel gave him a disbelieving look, which Dean countered quickly with one of his own. The fact that he struggled and survived this long, after being tortured, after being treated like an animal, after starving, after almost dying, after realizing there was no way off this island...! Dean could have _never_ survived that. Hell, he had barely survived the first two weeks of Sam’s disappearance! And if they were talking about physical strength, he had seen Castiel take on a werewolf, vampires, and demons, even though he was fucking _starving_ —

But that wasn’t what Castiel was saying, Dean realized suddenly.

 _I’m sorry I’m not the angel you want me to be_ , was what Cas was apologizing for.

And there was only one person who could have put that thought in his head.

 _Fuck,_ Dean thought.

He felt a wave of well-deserved guilt, and had to look away. He had told Castiel that he wasn’t a good enough angel, and had been constantly comparing him to the angel that he once was. Castiel picking up on his disappointment and anger at him for it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise… And it made Dean cringe, thinking of how that must have weighed on Castiel all this time. After everything he had been through, all Dean had focused on was everything that Castiel was _not_ , and had held it _against_ him. He had just looked at his broken body and broken wings and only saw someone who was broken too… And not an angel for it.

(No wonder Castiel had tried to hide his scars from him…)

But what _was_ an angel? Dean frowned, glancing back at Castiel. A fierce, absolute, terrifying warrior; a force of nature. Castiel _was_ those things, even now, even half-starved as he was. But an angel was also someone who protected people, helped them, _saved_ them. And what had Castiel been doing all this time? Hadn’t he saved him? Hadn't he protected him? Wasn’t he here now, helping him?

He _was_ the angel he wanted, Dean realized. He wasn't just Dean’s _hero_... he was Castiel, the angel helping him find Sam.

He was the only angel Dean would have wanted.

He swallowed again, and looked back at Castiel, who had turned away once more. Dean had no idea how to say that to him without it coming out completely chick-flicky, and he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that it would make the angel feel any better. He searched for words that didn’t immediately get stuck in his throat, and what came to him made him huff out a laugh.

“Maybe I wasn’t talking about physical strength,” he murmured, hoping Castiel would understand. ( _I wasn’t talking about physical weakness,_ Cas had told him when Dean had made the joke that he wasn't weak.) “But you’re pretty damn strong in that area, too,” he added quickly, because well... he  _was._

Castiel looked back at him, and Dean hoped everything he couldn’t say was in his eyes. The angel’s expression became one of wonder, the one like he didn’t know what Dean _was_ and he was awed by it. Dean didn’t know if he really deserved those looks, but he reached out to lightly touch Castiel’s shoulder again, offering him a smile. “Come on, Cas. Let’s find my brother.”

He stepped away, and then glanced back to encourage Castiel to follow, only to pause when he saw the angel’s face again.

Cas was _smiling._

It wasn’t a smile that actually made it to his lips; it was only in Castiel’s eyes. But Dean knew that look from years and years ago, warm eyes matched by a warm smile, full of promises of _It’s okay_. But this one was different too: his gaze gentle in a way that if it had made it to his lips, it would have been a tiny, relieved and maybe even a little hopeful. More than anything, it was grateful; Dean swallowed, his heart doing a half flop as he took it in.

He didn’t really know how much he had wanted to see that look again until he saw it… but he never once realized how _beautiful_ it was.

He felt his cheeks heat up at that thought, but then Castiel stepped ahead of him, and it was the angel’s turn to look back. Dean’s heart did a little half-flop again at Castiel’s happy _let’s go_ in his eyes, and it was that that made him smile too, saying it right back to him.

 _Let’s_.


	20. Chapter 20

Having those smiling eyes to look at made the task of searching for Sam’s whereabouts a little easier to bear over the next few hours. There weren’t any physical signs of where Sam was as far as Dean could tell, and every shout for his brother, once Castiel gave the all-clear, went unanswered. Some of his worry was assuaged when Cas pointed out that the forest was rather large, and they had a lot of ground to cover; also, if they could easily find Sam, that meant anyone else could too. The lack of clues were a good thing, as hard as that was for Dean to wrap his head around.

But what started to concern him more were the clouds overhead, which had grown thicker and darker as the afternoon wore on. The wind was strong through, rocking trees from side-to-side and rustling through the ferns loudly. That drew Castiel’s attention too, the angel studying the clouds before murmuring, “It’ll rain soon. Possibly snow, too.”

 _Thanks, Legolas,_ Dean thought to himself, and then scowled when a plop of rain hit his nose. Snow wasn’t too big of a concern, but they’d have to hole up if it did start raining unless they wanted to risk hypothermia. There was some pluses to that, however, Castiel pointing out the demons wouldn’t be out either. “They won’t be able to see or smell well in the rain or snow,” he explained. “But your brother may have taken shelter, in preparation for the storm.”

“Yeah, but where?” Dean grumbled as he looked around again, a few more plops of rain battering against a fern nearby. He glanced back when Castiel let out a sound that might have been a huff of irritation, his own eyes scanning the forest.

“I don’t know,” he said, and then looked at Dean, frowning. “He hides himself well.”

Dean huffed at that. “Yeah, he’s good at hiding,” he grumbled, remembering Flagstaff (it had taken Dad and him almost three weeks to figure out where Sam had gone), and Stanford. What he would have given for a broken branch, a footprint, a friggin’ megaphone—

Castiel let out a sound then; Dean looked over, seeing him staring off into the distance. There was nothing obvious on the horizon, but Dean prompted him anyway. “Do you see something?”

The angel didn’t reply; he simply headed off, and Dean lifted an eyebrow before limping after him as quickly as he could. Whatever Castiel had seen turned out to be fifty-something yards away, and Dean’s heart leaped when he saw what it for himself.

It was a long smear of blood on a fern.

 _Oh no, oh no,_ he started to think, as Castiel reached over and touched the blood. It came back sticky, a sign that, while not fresh, it had definitely been put there within the past day. Dean’s heart started to hammer painfully in his chest, the worst conclusions coming to mind: They were too late. He had wasted all of yesterday just trying to get to the mountain, while Sam had been attacked by demons. If it was Sam’s blood, that meant he had been _alive_ before Dean had been on this island...

It was too much; his eyes started to burn and his throat became thick. He almost didn’t notice Castiel stepping forward to push aside the ferns, but when he did, Dean saw the body on the ground.

His heart leaped again, but he quickly realized it wasn’t human: It was much too bulky, its fatigues making nearly invisible in the vegetation. It was a demon, face first in the dirt and snow, motionless. Dean trained his rifle on him anyway, and followed after Castiel as they slowly approached the body. While Castiel tilted his head curiously, Dean gingerly kicked the body for any signs of life. When nothing happened, he braced himself on a tree trunk and then used his foot to roll the body over.

Once over, Dean let out a low whistle in surprise. The demon’s clothes were soaked in blood, his skin chapped and red from being in the snow. The cause of death was obvious however, Castiel the one to point it out. “Is that... a stake in his stomach?”

It was, the wood buried deep inside him, attached to a broken sinewy branch. Dean frowned, before glancing at Castiel. “It’s part of a pig spear trap," he said, confused. "Did the idiot walk into his own trap?”

Castiel’s brow creased, and he began to shake his head. “I’ve never seen the daemons use a trap like this before.”

Dean blinked. And then blinked again, before he looked back down at the trap. _No. No way_ , he thought, and then looked around the forest again. It didn’t look like the demon had walked into the trap in the same place he had died; he had probably stumbled around until he collapsed. But where had the trap been placed?

There was one person who could answer that faster than he could, thankfully. “Do you know where he came from?” he asked Castiel, and the angel frowned, before glancing around as well. He found the trail quickly, and lead Dean down a path marked by more blood smears on the ferns and broken branches on small trees. Ferns started to be further and further apart and more ground opened up; when they came to a long row of trees, Dean let out a hiss of, _“Son of a bitch”_ as he took in the strangest sight.

There was a demon pinned to a tree by a thick, short spear through her stomach, black eyes glossy in death. Dean wanted to think it had been a bad way to go... but it was hard to tell when the next demon in the lineup had been crushed by a log. Dean _recognized_ spear demon though, as one of the demons whom he had seen the day before, the lieutenant of the group who had led the assualt on the djinn. He shook his head as he looked her over, remembering how she had encouraged her captain to let the demons eat the djinn. "How's that complacency thing working out for you?" he muttered at her.

Castiel gave him a confused look, and Dean waggled his eyebrows at him with a grin before looking around again. Castiel didn’t recognize these traps, but Dean _did,_ and his heart began to pound in excitement.

But then it stopped mid-beat when Castiel stepped forward, Dean quickly crying out in fear, “Cas, no!”

There was a snap, a blur of movement and while Dean felt time stop—

Castiel caught the knife whipping straight for his chest in mid-air, the sapling the blade was tied rustling loudly with the moment. Not that it mattered any. Dean’s brain was shorting out: partly from relief — God, Castiel could have _died_ — but mostly from amazement, because apparently Cas was faster than a whip, having caught a knife in _mid-air_.

“Dean, these traps—” Castiel began as he looked back at them and then paused, blinking twice at Dean. It was probably because of the look on Dean’s face, one he couldn’t hide even if he tried: the wonder and awe, as Castiel had caught a knife in _fucking mid-air;_ to the full-blown I-want-to-fuck-you-so-bad because Castiel had caught a knife in _mid-fucking-air,_ like a _bad-ass_ and _holy shit_ —

“Are odd,” Castiel finished in a whisper, and Dean saw the embarrassment in his eyes before he looked away, and started to rub at his neck.

That snapped Dean out of haze (well, the engine sputtered a few times before eventually roaring to life), because the rubbing-at-his-neck thing was different _,_ and he didn’t know how to read it. That was when he realized what he had been doing — and he felt his heat fill his cheeks. He coughed and cursed himself mentally — _angel fetish_ , he berated himself. (and his dick really needed to calm the fuck down); when Castiel glanced back, Dean waved a hand toward the knife.

“T-These traps. I know these traps,” he explained and Castiel's hand fell from his neck. “I taught Sam how to make these traps.”

“Your traps?” Castiel repeated, and Dean nodded quickly.

“Sam and I, we used to do a lot of hunting and fishing when we were kids. We were always catching game for the werewolves at the base and...” He caught Castiel’s bewildered expression and went on, pointing at each trap in turn. “That trap there, the fallen log? A deadfall trap. The long spear in that demon’s gut? A bow trap. That poor, unfortunate bastard we found? Pig spear trap. And that, in your hand, is the classic knife-attached-to-a-sapling. I always called it the _whiplash_.”

Castiel looked down at the knife again, tilting it around in his hand. “You taught your brother how to build these?” he repeated again, and Dean nodded, before looking around once more. Sam had kind of taken trap-building to the extreme grouping them up like this, but maybe that was the point. He had apparently caught a whole demon patrol in one set, and _damn,_ that took skill.

They could use these traps to find Sam, too, he realized then. “Sam would have marked the position of the traps, so he wouldn’t have tripped over them himself,” he told Castiel, scanning along the trunks of the trees for any sort of marker. “When we were kids, we used to carve pentagrams into the trees, but that’s probably too obvious here…”

“What about crosses?” Castiel asked, and Dean looked over at him. The angel was staring up at a tree, and Dean followed his gaze. High up on the trunk, high enough they would have gone unnoticed unless someone either happened to glance there or knew where to look, were two deep, deep groves in the shape of a cross. Dean quickly peeked around the base of the tree, pushing aside ferns until he saw four long stakes in the ground, the base for the bow trap. He then looked over toward the tree where the demon lay crushed: Sure enough, there were the same grooves up near the branches.

It was Sam’s marker, and Dean huffed out a laugh, delighted. “We can follow his bread crumbs right to him,” he breathed, grinning.

Castiel gave him a hopeful look, while Dean laughed again and then looked around once more. First, they would need to find a few more rows of traps — he had a feeling that Sam would position them so there would be more and more the closer someone got to his hideout. And that was true, they could just follow them right to his brother.

He was about to tell his plan to Castiel when he noticed there were more markers than bodies, indicating there was another trap close by. Keeping his eyes on the grooves of the tree, he moved forward, Castiel following after him. He put together a pattern in his head — whiplash, bow trap, deadfall — before he had to stop abruptly to stare down at a giant hole in the ground. Castiel paused beside him, and both looked over the impaled body and blood everywhere below, Dean breathing out a, “ _Damn,_ Sam.”

“You and your brother used to build spiked-lined pits when you were children?” Castiel asked him incredulously, and Dean let out a weak laugh as he glanced back at him.

“We were unsupervised. A lot,” he offered, and Castiel lifted both eyebrows before Dean looked back down the trap and the demon stuck on the spikes. His eyes were quickly drawn to something else though that was hanging off the demon's side, and then he looked back at Cas. “Hey, do you think you can help me down into the trap and pull me back up too?”

Castiel gave him another bewildered look, but nodded. He held Dean’s arm tightly while Dean made his way down, being extra careful not to go anywhere near the spikes. The angel watched him when he was at the bottom, face a mask of confusion and interest, while Dean went for his prize.

It was a namesake rifle, a Winchester 70 if he wasn’t mistaken, silver and sleek and _gorgeous_. Dean quickly unclipped it from the demon’s body and hefted it in his hands, the metal warm under his fingertips despite the cold. Curious, he slipped out the magazine to check the bullets, and then let out a low whistle when he saw what they were: .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. _Fuck_ , he thought. This gun could take down a _bear,_ and Dean had to hand it to demons: They did not fuck around when it came to weaponry.

“What is it?” Castiel asked but, before Dean could answer, the sky opened. From it, rain started to pour, Castiel looking up. Dean lifted a hand to shield his eyes, which was when he noticed the bag on the ground next to the demon’s body. It had fallen away from the spikes, blood making the zipper hard to move when Dean tried to open it, curious if there was more of the rifle’s ammo inside. There was, a box of spare bullets as well as a spare water bottle, but there were also shiny, familiar-looking packets.

Dean’s heart began to race as he snatched one up and twisted it around to read the label.

_Hearty beef stew._

“Son of a bitch,” he said out loud in complete, utter disbelief, before he looked up at Castiel. He started laughing as he waved the packet at him, the angel looking down in confusion.

“Cas! Cas!" Dean called excitedly. "We got food. _We got food!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, this is what the Winchester 70 model [looks like.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vyMLSSULOyoJFBUI627AkmsBlPckJLZn-W6aCmUXhRs/edit?usp=sharing)


	21. Chapter 21

“Goddamn, this is good,” Dean said after his first bite of the chicken-and-rice MRE. While he had never been a picky eater when it came to instant food, military food wasn't high on his list of 'favorite foods,' having eaten his fair share during Colt’s Gate and his army days. And if someone had told him that one day he’d be enjoying one while sitting in a cave in the middle of a rainstorm (with an angel, of all people too), he would have laughed in their face. But two days since his last meal, there was only one way to describe the food: “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“It’s glorious,” Castiel agreed with a groan, eyes closed as he sipped at his beef stew. His wings fluttered in pleasure, light from the fire they had built giving his dark gray feathers a blue hue. It wasn’t quite the rainbow of colors Dean so fondly remembered, but they were still pretty to look at, and made him wonder how they glowed like that. But then he was chuckling when Castiel’s wings did their excited half-flap again, smacking into Dean’s side for what was probably the fiftieth time.

“Sorry,” Castiel said quickly, though he didn't sound apologetic at all, mostly because he was taking another big slurp of food. For limbs that hadn’t done much but lay flat against his back with the occasional rustle, his wings had come to life since they had found food. While they had searched for shelter when the storm had hit, Castiel’s wings had began to sway and quiver, bobbing out and doing their little half-flaps. And once they had found a dry cave and gotten comfortable inside, the small space meant Castiel’s wings started thumping against Dean. It might have been annoying at any other time for Dean, but amusement had eventually turned into appreciation: as the feathers dried, they felt nice against his bare skin just as much as the warmth of the fire did.

When they had been settling down in the cave, Dean had started to build a fire to cook the MRES; while they could have eaten them cold, when it had been more than two years since Castiel had eaten a hot meal, Dean wanted him to have that luxury. Castiel had excitedly went through his options while Dean had sliced away at wet wood to get to the drier parts underneath the bark.

“What do you think, Dean? Chicken and rice or hearty beef stew?” Castiel had asked, sounding breathless, while his wing smacked Dean’s side again and again. “The chicken and rice sounds good, but it says the beef stew is hearty, substantial and nourishing. It would be good to have something substantial and nourishing, wouldn’t it?”

He hadn’t been wrong there, Dean had thought, and he looked over the scars and bruises all over Castiel’s too-thin body again. It had been a painful sight when he had helped Castiel out of his wet trenchcoat, and had seen the rest of his upper body. While there was nowhere near the same amount of scarring, there had been a bite mark on his shoulder that looked like it was from a vampire (but hopefully not from one of the vampires they knew), as well as some light scarring, bruises and scratches on his back that was probably the result of living such a hard life. And of course, there was how thin he was, Dean able to count all the vertebrae in his back and see the outline of his ribs.

But any anger he had felt had faded when Castiel turned back to him and helped Dean out of his wet shirts. (Bad thing about having bruised ribs? Couldn’t lift your arms very high. Good thing? It made for attentive angels.) Those were left to dry next to their gear, guns, angel blade and Sam's knife from the trap, and with the warmth of the fire heating up chilled skin, bones and feathers, Dean decided he could be angry later. They were close to finding Sam, they were getting the hell off this island in a day, and they had _food_. The smile had yet to leave Castiel’s eyes, and Dean couldn’t help but return it. What wasn’t there to smile about?

To the chicken and rice or hearty beef stew question, Dean had offered the best solution. “Why not both?” he said as he took both packets from Castiel. He decided the stew was going to have to be Cas’s first meal, however; out of the two, the stew would be easier on a stomach no longer used to heavy foods. As Castiel blinked owlishly at him, he added, “We can share.”

“Oh,” Castiel breathed, as if it were the most novel idea in the world. “Oh. Oh, yes, good plan, Dean.”

“I have them from time to time,” Dean joked, and got to cooking them once the fire was going. Castiel helped them with that too, feeding the flames dried leaves and twigs that were in the cave, remarking how he hadn’t seen fire in so long. Dean tried not to be angry about that either (though he could feel his eye twitch several times in protest), turning his attention to placing the food packets on hot rocks he had set up near the fire to heat the MREs up.

While they cooked — and Castiel watched the packets like a hawk — Dean realized he kind of had the demons to thank for the meal. Their weird way of keeping order and loyalty in the ranks by withholding food still seemed weird, but two days without eating, Dean had understood the impulse a _lot_ better.

When the smell of piping hot food finally hit their noses, Castiel’s entire body had jerked, his pupils slitting again. Dean hadn’t blamed him — he could feel his mouth start to water and hands shake as he opened up the beef stew to let it start cooling. He plopped a spoon inside before holding it out to the angel, Castiel’s eyes laser-like on the food as Dean murmured, “Alright, Cas, we gotta have some ground rules, ‘kay? Look at me.”

It took several seconds, but Castiel’s eyes left the cooling bag in Dean’s hand to meet his gaze. “You need to eat slowly, alright?” Dean stressed, and then forced a smile to belie his very real concern. “I know you’ll probably die happy, but you are not going into a food coma over instant beef stew MRE, y’hear? Let’s save that for the good stuff.”

The hunger was so heavy in Castiel’s eyes that Dean didn’t think he had heard him, and as PSAs about glucose shock went, Dean probably hadn’t done his best _._ But then Castiel nodded with a whisper of “Yes, Dean,” and Dean gulped down his worry, before gingerly handing the bag over.

Castiel’s wings and hands were trembling as he reached for the bag, and worried he was going to drop it, Dean kept a hold on it. The angel’s hands cupped gently around his own before he drew it in, his eyes sliding closed as he ignored the spoon and brought the bag to his lips. His wings gave away what his first taste of food in however-many-days was like, feathers shuddering violently against his body. It made Dean look away with a pained grimace; goddamn, did he feel guilty for telling Castiel he should have starved…

But as much as Dean probably deserved it, there was no judgement in Castiel’s eyes when he opened them up. His pupils were back to normal, and the warm look returned as he pulled the stew away from him. “Your turn, Dean,” he prompted. “Eat.”

So Dean did, after settling down next to Cas and stretching out his leg, knee popping loudly. After he took his first bite however, it was a struggle not to wolf the entire MRE down. (They were supposed to be sharing after all.) Castiel was following his advice at least, savoring his meal with every slow sip, wings declaring his feelings about it.

“This is so much tastier than kelp,” he muttered after several dozen sips, and Dean glanced over at him.

Mouth full, he could only grunt out, “Kelp?”

“Yes, and an abundance of it recently,” Castiel replied, picking up the neglected spoon inside the packet and sliding into his mouth. Dean tried not to stare as Castiel sucked on it. “Pine nuts and mushrooms too, but I was attempting to store those for winter, so I didn’t eat as many as I would have liked.”

“Sounds…” Dean trailed off, and while he wanted to say _depressing,_ he decided not to. “That wasn’t all you had to eat here, right?” Everything Castiel had mentioned so far — except for the fish — did not sound appetizing at all.

“Oh no, no, only in the winter,” Castiel replied, spoon bobbing up and down in his mouth as he talked. “There is more variety during the rest of the year. Winter is just the hardest and…”

He trailed off, and since the end of that sentence lay ‘I-tried-to-eat-you’ land, Dean just waved it off. Castiel took the hint and went on, sliding his spoon free and dipping it back into the stew. “It really depends where you are. In the meadow, there are grasses and flowers through the spring and summer. The seals and birds come back in the spring, and there’s fish in the autumn. When the tide is low on the beaches, you can find oysters, crabs and other animals in the tide pools. There were berries not too long ago — that was nice. Oh, during the warmer months, there are plenty of insects too.”

Dean choked on his chicken and rice. Castiel look over in concern as Dean coughed, breathed and then gagged. “Bugs?!” he cried, looking over at Castiel in horror.

“They’re high in protein?” the angel offered, and Dean shuddered in disgust; however, Castiel seemed to determine to one-up himself, adding, “I also ate a lot of bird eggs too, during the spring and summer.”

That, at least, made Dean snort in laughter. “Cannibal,” he teased, and Castiel huffed through his nose in what could have been a laugh of his own. His eyes narrowed in a mock glare, a look Dean had to admit he liked... though he was starting to wonder what it would look like if Cas _actually_ laughed.

He hoped he’d be around to see it when it happened. At least he got to see Cas eat his first real meal in two-something years... though MREs still weren’t high on what he called his “real food” list. “Damn, Cas,” he said with a shake of his head as he leaned over to give Castiel some of his chicken and rice. Cas’s eyes lit up at the new addition. “We’re going to have to make sure eggs, insects and MREs aren’t forever your standard for good food. Not when there's a whole world of real food out there waiting for you.”

Castiel gave him a thoughtful look. “Real food?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Like, steak. Or I don’t know, pie.” Fuck, that sounded good: _Pie_. Dean licked his lips at the thought. “Something you like. What’s your first real meal going to be?”

Castiel frowned, slurping at his stew again while he pondered that over. Dean wondered what Cas would choose — if he was going to go for some exotic angel dish Dean had never heard of. But he started grinning when Castiel, with a twitch of his lips and his right wing flapping into Dean’s side again, murmured, “I... I would like a hamburger.”

“Oh, an angel after my own heart,” Dean crooned, and Castiel looked at him, eyes scrunching up in a pleased expression. Dean grinned again, nudging their shoulders playfully. “I’m going to have to take you out for hamburgers, Cas,” he said, and briefly entertained a fun, little fantasy of feeding Castiel said hamburgers. Then he frowned, realizing something. “And geez, help you catch up on everything you’ve missed, huh? The movies alone…”

That look of Castiel’s — the one where he had clearly forgotten what a particular something was — passed over his face, but quickly faded. “I was always terrible with keeping up with those,” he murmured around a spoon of stew. “I may have missed a lot.”

It was like the heavens opened up and lights shone down on Dean. He sat up, excited. “Oh man, you have come to the right guy,” he said, waving his fork around. He could already see it too, an entire plan mapped out in his head. “We’re going to do this right: hamburgers, pie, the top 10 movies of last year, and then we’ll go from there. Get some classics in, too: _The Untouchables, Godzilla versus Mothra, Star Wars_ …”

Castiel listened to his little spiel with a fond expression forming on his face, and Dean’s heart did one of its little flops again. He still wanted a real smile from Castiel, but he really liked the angel’s happy looks. It made Cas look so…

That thought was cut off by Castiel’s wing flapping right in his face. While Castiel jerked it back, looking mortified, Dean snorted in amusement. “Well, I’m glad your wings are excited,” he teased.

Castiel ducked his head, embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t control them. I’m... I’m acting like a fledgling.”

“Your wings?” Dean asked and, as if in reply, Castiel’s wing thumped against his side again. Castiel’s eyes flickered away in embarrassment once more, but Dean just chuckled. “They’re not so bad. I mean, they do remind me of hyperactive four-year-olds, but I’m used to that.”

Castiel looked back at that, brow creasing slightly. “Do you... have children?” he asked curiously.

Dean was a little thrown by that, before he thought back on what he said, and then he quickly shook his head. “Me? No. Sam does though. Two kids — four-year-old twins: Mary and Joan. Cutest rugrats you’ll ever see. Sam, and Jess — Sammy’s wife — they’re both pretty busy with their careers, so I’m kind of their unofficial nanny. I take them to preschool, host their tea parties, that sorta thing.”

Well, he _had._ But that was a sad thought, and one he didn’t want to have right now either. He was in too good of a mood for depressing thoughts. Instead, he thought about how, if he had them on him, he’d start pulling out the photos for Castiel to see. He loved showing off Sam’s kids — how they had been walking and talking by nine months, how Sam was horrified by how much they loved Spaghetti O's, how much they loved rides in the Impala, and Dean had let them carve their initials right next to his and Sam's...

Those happy thoughts were quickly replaced with a horrifying one though. “Do… do you have children?” Dean asked quickly as he looked at the angel, a little scared for the answer. He didn’t remember ever reading or hearing about Cas having kids, but still: What if Castiel had forgot that he had children? How horrible would that be?

He was never more relieved when Castiel shook his head. “No,” he murmured around a slurp of stew. “It never happened. If I were still in Jannah, perhaps, but…”

Dean frowned, confused. Why would he have kids in his home country, but not here? “What do you mean?”

“In Jannah, our partners are chosen for us by our host’s elders when we come of age,” Castiel explained, and Dean lifted an eyebrow. He had never read about that before, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing anything on angel courtship in books. “They want to ensure that strong, healthy children are born each generation so they pair us with partners based on their bloodline and rank within the hierarchy.”

 _Huh_ , Dean thought. That was different, but he rolled with it. Each species had their own ways of marriage (if they even married) and kids, after all: Werewolf mothers raised their children on their own; vampire nests were usually comprised of the matriarch, her partner and their children; demons had their kids and then sent them on their way when they were full grown. Still, it was weird to think of someone choosing a partner for you. “So no angels marrying for love, huh?”

“That is a very recent Western human concept,” Castiel replied, brow furrowing, which huh, Dean didn’t know that either. “And our partnerships wouldn’t even be considered marriages in the human sense. It’s… complicated. Saying that, when my host came to America, Gabriel let us choose who we’d partner with and raise children with, if we decided to. But many of my brothers and sisters still went to our elders when they came of age so they could make the decision.”

Well, you learned something new every day, Dean thought. But there was also something else he was curious about, and glanced back at Castiel. “So if you’ve never got a partner and kids, have you never… y’know?”

At Castiel’s bewildered look, Dean made a finger-hand gesture; when Castiel tilted his head at that, Dean offered, “Cloud seeding?”

It was like when he asked Castiel about angel porn: it took the angel another moment of staring at Dean’s gesture before his eyes went wide. Dean tried not to laugh as Castiel ducked his head and began rubbing at his neck fiercely.

“I’ve had… encounters,” he grumbled. Dean snorted in laughter again.

“Encounters, huh? Is that what angels call it?” he teased, and when Castiel rubbed his neck again, Dean grinned. Cas being shy about sex was just too great, and he nudged the angel playfully with his elbow. “I mean, I hope you’ve had a lot, Cas. I mean, you’re _you_. You could have anyone.”

Castiel’s hand stilled against his neck, his eyes shifting to Dean’s. “Anyone?” he whispered.

It was the way he said it that made Dean hesitate before replying. It almost sounded like Cas had never considered that before, or had never thought about himself that way. And well, Dean had been doing his best not to let his angel fetish problem be _too_ obvious … (A fetish more or less started when he was thirteen by the very same angel sitting next to him, ironically.) But Cas, while needing to gain some goddamn weight (purely for health reasons), was still a pretty good-looking angel...

“Yeah,” Dean heard himself say from far away. “You’re an _angel_. You’re not even limited to your own kind. I bet..." He swallowed, and licked his lips. "I bet you wouldn’t even have to talk someone into the whole interspecies double dip.”

Dean didn’t exactly know what kind of reaction he wanted from Castiel, but it was not the angel's brow slowly knitting while his nose wrinkled a little. And it was certainly not Cas saying, “My brethren, Balthazar, used to say things like that. Not in those exact words but... if I remember correctly, he was trying to organize an orgy.”

If there was any way to send Dean’s brain into a tailspin and put him in his place all at once, that was it. He stared at Castiel blankly, before muttering, “What.”

“He tried to talk me into a lot of orgies,” Castiel went on, and Dean swallowed slowly, trying not to feel too... Well, too less of a man with his somewhat limited experience in comparison to _multiple orgies_.

“Is that... Is that an angel thing?”

“No, I believe it was a ‘60s thing,” Castiel replied, and then glanced at Dean as if he would know. Dean felt his cheeks heat up and he coughed, looking away.

“Uh, who knows. I wasn’t exactly born yet,” he muttered, and Castiel hummed in reply, sipping at his stew again. But that made Dean realize something, and he glanced back at the angel. “Wait, how old are you?”

Castiel, didn’t look much older than him... And Dean remembered that he had been considered young when he entered the war. But that was also _twenty-two_ years ago...

Castiel’s face went blank at that, and Dean winced when he had to ask what year it was. “I am ninety years old,” he said after a moment, looking amazed.

Dean’s mind blanked at that, a spoonful of chicken-and-rice halfway to his mouth hanging in the air. While he knew angels lived hundreds of years — some books said up to four hundred years — it was still kind of weird to think that Castiel was almost three times his age. _Damn,_ angels aged well, though. “Ninety, huh?” he finally managed. “Um. Lookin’ good there, Cas.”

That made Cas rub at his neck again, right as Dean realized what he said. _Fuck_ , he thought, embarrassed. Okay, it was time to change the subject. Like right _now_.

Luckily, one came right to mind. “You know, ‘67 was a good year,” he said, and Castiel made a questioning sound. Dean grinned at him. “It was the year the greatest car in the world came rollin’ off the lot: my baby, the 1967 Chevy Impala.”

He was surprised when Castiel’s eyes brightened, wing thumping against Dean’s side again. “You have a ‘67 Impala? What model?”

Dean’s heart did a half-flop. “A 427 SS,” he replied and Castiel’s eyes lit up again.

“I know that one,” he said, and the excitement was in his voice as well as his wings. “Three-eighty-five bhp, and they introduced the turbo hydra-matic that year, along with the positraction differential. With the 460 pound-foot of torque at 3400 RPM, it was one the most powerful engines built at the time.”

Dean caught himself licking his lips, but he couldn’t help himself: the angel was talking _cars_. Holy hell, Cas was talking _cars._ “You a car buff, Cas?” he said gruffly, and Castiel nodded happily.

“Yes. Not in mechanic or collector sense, but in an aesthetic way.” Castiel paused then, eyes flickering in a way that meant he was remembering something. “I have a car, too.”

“You do?”

“A 1957 Chevrolet Corvette,” Castiel confirmed, and Dean lifted his eyebrows in amazement. That wasn’t a car, that was a _classic._ An American-as-apple-pie car, if there was ever one. “It was… It was the first thing I ever bought for myself. My family… They thought I was mad for purchasing it. I didn’t even know how to _drive_ it.”

Dean snorted at the mental image: Castiel with his floppy wings sitting behind the wheel of a car while his family stood by with confused looks. “Why’d you buy it if you couldn’t even drive it?”

“It reminded me of the first car I had ever seen,” Castiel replied and there was a look in his eyes that Dean couldn’t quite describe. It was beyond happy. It was almost... rapturous. “The first time I had ever seen an example of human ingenuity.”

Dean frowned. “Human ingenuity?” he repeated, and the look didn’t leave Castiel’s eyes as he explained.

“When I was a fledgling, I lived in a small village in Jannah, and humans… you were only stories to us,” he said, and Dean frowned again. “I had never seen a human before, and I didn’t understand you as a people. There was no way I could understand you either, not until the automobile came. It was a 1929 Rolls Royce Ascot Sport Phaeton... And it was like the Arch of Light had come to visit our village.”

That would have been Michael, the first angel. Dean couldn’t even imagine how an angel that was practically God to all angels could equate to a _car._ Castiel seemed to notice his confusion, and his gaze grew warm. “It was like magic to us, Dean. This machine that could outrun an angel; outfly one, too? My brethren and I, we spent all day racing the car in the _altin_ fields outside our village, and Gabriel even let us drive it around.”

The _altin_ berries were what angels were famous for outside of their legendary skills in battle. It was one of their chief exports too, mostly used to make a wine that was insanely expensive. Dean perked up at the familiar name though. “Gabriel? Your arch, right? Or, former arch?”

Castiel shook his head. “Not at the time. I was part the Vertus host then. The arch was an angel named Raphael.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle was your arch?”

Castiel huffed out a soft sound, his expression gentle as he looked back at Dean. “No, not one of those,” he murmured, and Dean flushed. The warm look kept him from feeling too stupid, plus everything Cas was saying was fascinating too, if not kind of confusing.

“So, you…what? Switched hosts?”

Castiel nodded. “That’s why Gabriel came to my village. He was a new arch at the time, and it is customary for archs to exchange members of their host with the other hosts, much like human monarchs used to marry their sons and daughters to establish peace between countries. It’s usually a contentious time between the hosts — high-ranking warriors are usually exchanged, and sometimes it can start wars between us — but Gabriel had different plans for his host. He wanted us to come to America.”

Dean had always wondered about that, and as much as America liked rubbing it in the rest of the world’s face that they had an angelic host of their own, why were there no other ones? When he asked, Castiel’s eyes grew bright. “That’s the very thing. Gabriel wanted Jannah to join the rest of the world. He wanted us to learn from you. He wanted us to learn from humans.”

Dean frowned, a little lost. “Learn what?”

“ _Everything,_ ” Castiel said breathlessly and Dean saw the wonder in his eyes. “Oh, Dean, what your species is capable of, an angel couldn’t even _dream_ of. How you see the world, how you see its intricacies, how you learn from it, how you change from it, how you _change_ it. For all my people’s strength, all our abilities, all our skills... angels have never been capable of what a single human can do in one lifetime. And you just build and build from there.”

Dean frowned again. He had never heard another species talk about humans like that before — most vampires and demons certainly didn't view humans as anything but parasites determined to destroy the planet and outbreed everyone. There was no denying Cas’s passion however, but Dean didn't get it: How could he compare humans to  _angels?_ Angels were... Well,  _angels._ There wasn't any comparison.

“Cars, for example,” Castiel went on. “We would never think of that. We would have said our wings and our legs are the only transport we need, without once taking in account how much easier it is to drive.”

Dean had to give him that, even if he didn’t understand what Castiel was saying. “But you guys … It’s not like you _need_ cars. You guys are warriors.”

Castiel’s wing brushed Dean’s side again, feathers tickling his skin, while he shook his head. “We are, but for centuries, we had no purpose. We were sell swords to any human nation with the most gold or capital. But my people could be so much more than that. Could we not help change the world, too, other than by war?”

Dean frowned again, while Castiel’s eyes grew brighter and brighter. “We, who evolved to look like you… We were long overdue to learn your lessons. But we are learning, and one day, my host, my _family_ , we will return to Jannah, and we’ll show them everything we’ve learned. We’ll teach our brothers and sisters a better way, we’ll change our country and then… then…”

Dean was so caught up in everything that Castiel was saying that he grew confused when the angel trailed off. Then Dean grew alarmed when he saw a tear slide down Castiel’s cheek.

“Cas?” he asked quickly, and Castiel slowly looked at him.

“I used to have hopes and dreams,” he whispered, and Dean froze. “I used to have a family.”

The sheer horror in Castiel’s eyes had Dean’s heart clenching. Had he forgotten them? But he had been talking about them...

“You still do, Cas,” he said quickly, and Castiel’s brow creased before his eyes lowered to his hands. They were trembling, and Dean felt the urge to reach out and sooth them. He leaned in instead and let their shoulders touch to provide comfort; Castiel pressed back, even if he didn’t seem to realize it. Whatever he was struggling with, it made emotions flicker through his eyes so fast that Dean could barely read them.

“I-I forgot,” Cas whispered after a long, painful moment; Dean baited his breath, letting the angel find the words. “I… I-I forgot that I haven’t always been here. That I haven’t always been on this island.”

The pain in Cas’s eyes was too much; Dean grasped his arm, and thankfully Castiel didn’t tense up in surprise like he had before. He looked at him instead, more tears slipping down his cheeks. “H-How could I forget that, Dean?”

Dean didn’t know how to answer that. While he struggled to, Castiel closed his eyes, head dipping. “I didn’t mean to forget,” he whispered, voice tight. His wings trembled, hands curling into fists, knuckles turning white. “I didn’t want to forget.”

Dean winced and shook his head again. “It’s okay, Cas,” he reassured, squeezing his arm gently. He didn’t know exactly how to comfort him, and went with the first thing that popped in his head. “You’ll be with your family soon, and it’ll all be okay.”

Castiel looked back at him, eyes filled with something Dean knew so well: aching loss, regret and remorse. But there was also the smallest trickle of hope, though it faded when Castiel’s eyes widened with a flicker of fear. He looked down at himself then, his free hand lifting up to touch his scars, while his wings spread out and his gaze traveled over missing, broken and shredded feathers.

“What will they think of me?” he whispered, but the shame in his eyes when he looked back was for far more than his physical scars.

“They’re not going to care, Cas,” Dean reassured again, but Castiel looked away once more, tears in his eyes again. Dean gently squeezed his arm, wishing Castiel would look at him. “Cas, believe me. They won’t.”

“I forgot what I was. _Who_ I was, Dean,” Castiel protested, voice gruff. “I forgot _them._ I forgot my family, my host.”

Dean frowned at that, confused. Forgetting what he was, who he was, Dean understood why he thought that, but forgetting his family? “No, you didn’t,” he said with a shake of his head. “Cas, you just told me about them: about Gabriel, and your family who thought you were crazy for buying a car, about your dreams and hopes for your country—”

“But I still forgot _them_ , Dean,” Castiel interrupted, looking at Dean desperately. “I forgot myself. I-I… I didn’t keep fighting. I hurt people. I _killed_ people. I let people die. I … I…” He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut, and Dean shook his head.

“You were tortured. You were hunted _,_ ” he snapped, but Castiel only turned his head away again. “You were _starved_. You were forced to do things you never would do to _survive_ , Cas, everyone here was, and you can’t blame yourself for that.”

Castiel looked back at him and Dean saw the anger in his eyes, the self-loathing. “I became nothing more than an animal, Dean,” he hissed, before the self-loathing turned into utter horror. His pupils slitted, too, voice lowering to a whisper, “I-I tried to _eat_ you. I _would_ have eaten you.”

Dean tensed, but then pushed that bad memory aside. Castiel went on, shaking his head. “I would have killed a human,” he whispered again, and his gaze flicked back to Dean’s, eye wet again. “I would have killed _you._ ”

He said it like the very thought of killing Dean was the worst thing in the world, and Dean _hated_ that Castiel had to feel guilty about that. (As if Dean _mattered_.) “I don’t care,” he snapped, and this time meant it. He couldn’t lose Castiel to _this_ — he couldn’t lose Castiel to Dick like this. _“_ You saved me more times than I can count — in ways you don’t even _realize,_ Cas. I would have died if it wasn’t for you. I would have never known how to find my brother. I wouldn’t be so close to finding him. Cas, listen to me. _Look at me._ ”

Castiel had turned away while he had been speaking, but he did as asked, and Dean shook his head at him. “I know you feel guilty, Cas,” he hissed. “I get it, but that wasn’t you, you understand? That was Dick. He did this to you. You can’t blame yourself for that, Cas. I don’t, and your family won’t either. You _have_ to believe me.”

Castiel looked away again, but Dean let him this time. “Your family’s just gonna’ be happy you’re alive. They’re just gonna’ be happy you’re _home,_ ” he told him, and then swallowed, his throat starting to hurt. “Trust me, they would give _anything_ to have you back.”

 _Losing a family member like that, never knowing what happened to them_ — _it’s all you ever think about_ , he wanted to add, but it got stuck in his throat. As much as he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help but remember the days and nights after Sam disappeared. Nights were spent in the Impala, drinking until he passed out; days were spent drinking whiskey while waiting for that one phone call, the one where someone finally found Sam’s body _._ There was the times when he would watch Jess and the girls go about their lives with the Sam-shaped hole in it, only for one of the twins to look around and ask, _“Where’s Daddy?”_

It still so goddamn painful to think about, but Dean forced it down, down, _down_. It didn’t matter anymore, he reminded himself. He was going to find Sam and get him _home._ And he was going to get Castiel home too, even if it fucking _killed_ him—

Castiel looked back at him then, eyes filled with so much guilt Dean could have drowned in it. “But how do I not blame myself?” he whispered, a question that made Dean’s heart sink slowly. “How do I live with myself, Dean?”

The look in Castiel’s eyes said that Dean could argue up and down all night that it wasn’t the angel’s fault, but that didn’t mean Cas could or would ever believe it. And that hurt Dean, as he wondered if this was _his_ fault. Hadn't he put those thoughts in Cas’s head? He was the one who had accused Cas of not being an angel, of not fighting back, of not saving people. What had he _done?_

But just as desperation was settling in — the thought he _would_ lose Cas to this, because of his own selfishness — the answer to Cas’s question came to him. _Promise me, Dean,_ Sam whispered in the back of his mind, and Dean’s heart thudded hard in his chest.

He knew guilt. He knew it damn well, and that there was only one way to live with it. And it was such an awful answer … But if it kept Cas from drowning in his guilt, Dean would give it to him. “You’re…” he began slowly, a lump growing in his throat as he pulled his hand away from Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re going to have to figure out how to live with it, Cas.”

 _With the pain, the guilt, with yourself,_ he didn’t say, not that he needed to. Castiel looked up and then over at Dean, the question in his eyes. “You’re going to have to find something to live for,” he answered, and then swallowed again. “Until you figure out how to do it for yourself.”

It was a horrible, _horrible_ answer, and Dean hated himself for having to give it to him. But something about it resonated with Castiel, as he blinked several times, his eyes returning to normal. Dean could practically see the wheels in his head turning, Castiel looking down at his hands, which were no longer shaking. They curled into fists as he let out a long, slow breath, wings rustling before going still.

Dean couldn’t look at Castiel after that — not after giving _that_ answer — and he turned away, leaving the angel to his thoughts. He looked toward the cave entrance, rain pooling in between the roots of trees that had grown into the cave. He wondered where Sam was then... and if his brother had been thinking the same thing when he had Dean make that promise. He had wanted to give Dean something to live for, until he figured out how to do it for himself again...

And maybe it would have worked, if everything hadn’t all gone to hell.

 _Promise me, Dean,_ Sam whispered again, and Dean felt his heart clench.

“Dean?”

He stiffened, not wanting to look back at Cas, so he didn’t. But Castiel pressed on.

“Dean, what is it?”

Nope. Still didn’t want to look. Dean just wanted to watch the rain and lament over not having any alcohol on him. _Promise me,_ he heard Sam whisper again, and Dean shut his eyes tight.

When Castiel’s hand touched his shoulder, it made Dean’s breath stutter out. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes — God, when was the last time anyone had touched him to comfort him? Why did it have to feel so nice? — before he hesitantly glanced at the angel. Castiel looked back at him with a soft, concerned gaze, like they could see all of Dean’s guilt and regret and pain, and Dean _hated_ that he could.

What was his pain compared to Castiel’s anyway? he thought. How could it ever compare to what Castiel had lived through? It couldn’t, and Dean shook his head, dismissals and excuses on his tongue, until Castiel shook his head.

“Dean, _please_ ,” he whispered.

It was strange how that made the words slip right out of his mouth, before Dean even realized it. Maybe he was _that_ desperate; maybe it was the look in Castiel’s eyes that made him want to confess _everything._

“I made a promise to Sam,” he whispered, and he almost lost it there, his throat closing up. He had to swallow around the lump there, and Castiel’s wing brushed his side until he could find the words again. “Before he disappeared, h-he made me make a promise: If anything happened to him, I would look after his family.”

Whatever his reasons — so Dean didn’t look for him; so Dean lived for someone other than his brother — it didn’t matter. But it took everything for Dean to admit it to Castiel, through gritted teeth and clenched fists and his blurry vision.

“But I’m the one who tore our family apart.”


	22. Chapter 22

_I tore our family apart._

It was so easy to slip into that memory, but it was hardly a surprise when Dean had spent so long going over it in his head again and again, always in those moments between drunk and sober where everything became too sharp and real once more. He and Sam had been drinking beers while Jess played with the twins in the living room; Dean couldn’t remember what they were talking about, but he had noticed Sam kept looking toward his small family, his expression growing more and more troubled.

And then he had turned back to Dean, and whispered his fateful words.

_Promise me._

“And, I do think Sam meant it, that he wanted someone to look after his family,” Dean told Castiel, who was watching him quietly. Dean looked away, swallowing around the lump in his throat again. “But he was also making me promise something else, and I didn’t realize it until after he was gone. He… He didn’t want me to find out what happened to him.”

Castiel let out a confused sound. “How do you know?” he asked.

Dean couldn’t quite manage the smile he wanted as he glanced back at Castiel. “Because if he did, he would have left me a sign. He always left me some sort of sign... And even if he didn’t, he always left clues behind without realizing it. When we were kids, Sammy could hide himself from a _werewolf_ ; even our dad — and our old man could track down a demon patrol with nothing more than a couple footprints. But Sammy couldn’t hide from me. Ever. I just knew him too well. Hell, I raised that kid since he was in diapers, after our mom died. He could hide nothing from me, and God, how it used to piss him off...”

Dean managed a grin, remembering all the times Sam would get flustered and annoyed after he found him in his various hiding spots. It was usually after a big fight with Dad, and Dean always let Sam cool off before he went to find him at whatever library, park bench or coffee stand he had holed up at. Sometimes Sam would need more time to sulk, so Dean just sat with him while he did. Sometimes Sam needed to rant: About Dad and his demon paranoia (though Dean hadn’t called it that back then); about the constant moving; about still being forced to train like soldiers even though the war was long over.

And sometimes Sam just turned his anger on Dean: Telling him that one day he’d go somewhere where his brother would _never_ be able to find him.

Dean’s grin faded at that thought. Sam had said stuff like that when he was a teenager, when Dean would be home on leave. He hadn’t really wanted to leave Sam and Dad alone together with no one around to help keep the peace between them, but Dean joining the military met they had a chance at some stability. There had been good housing and slightly less moving, and a community that understood where they had come from. That hadn’t meant Sam had been any happier or Dad any less... well, Dad... but Dean liked to think it had been good for all three of them.

Still... Those words were painfully prophetic, weren’t they?

But he had done what he was supposed to do. What he was _always_ supposed to do.

“That was my job, you know? To take of Sam,” he told Castiel, who was frowning slightly but still listening. His wing occasionally brushed Dean’s side, as if trying to comfort him too. “Ever since he was a baby, I looked out for him. I had to: Our mom died when the Uprisings started, and pretty much the next day my dad was off to fight after he dropped us off at Colt’s Gate. I would only see him off-and-on for eight years, but I still remember what he told me: _Watch out for Sammy_.”

Castiel had no reaction to name Colt’s Gate, not that Dean expected him to. And he supposed it didn’t matter really, Dean setting down his MRE packet as he stared into the fire. “And I did,” he murmured, smiling at the memories. “I did. Sammy was only six months old at the time, but Mom had showed me all the basics: how to change diapers, warm up milk, comfort him when he was crying. I watched Sammy learn how to crawl and walk, and the first word out of his mouth was ‘Dean.’ And he wouldn’t shut up after that, always asking questions about what this was, what that was, how did it work, why was the sky blue—”

Dean realized he was getting off track _again_ , though he knew he could talk about Sam all day. He would have rather talked about Sam, too. _Sammy went to Stanford_ , he wanted to say to Cas instead. _Stanford! Graduated top of his class, and he passed his bar exam with flying colors. You’re going to like him, I think. You want to build a better world? That’s kinda Sam’s thing, too._

Castiel’s wing brushed his side again, and Dean glanced at it before swallowing once more. “The point is, Sam knew something was going to happen to him, and if he wanted me to find out what, he would have left clues for me. But there wasn’t _anything_... None of his notes, or files; his computer was clean. And even if someone purposefully tried to get rid of all the evidence, Sam would have had backup plans, something I would have found. But there was nothing... And I only had those accidental clues to go on.”

Those were his own memories, but it had taken Dean a few months to realize it. “I did as I was told though,” he said, looking back at Castiel. The angel's concern expression didn't waver. “I didn’t look for Sam. I didn’t try to find out what happened to him after I realized he didn’t want me to. I wanted to, though. I really did. But I thought maybe he had a plan. That he disappeared for a reason. That they wouldn’t be pulling his body from the Hudson or worse. That’d he come back home.”

But, of course, that hadn’t happened. The police instead found evidence that Sam had fled the country under one of his fake names. The search had turned into a criminal investigation, the authorities suspicious that his had been involved in something illegal. And while Dean _refused_ to believe it — that Sam would have ever done something like this willingly (obviously someone had forced him to leave or had taken him... or worse, _had_ killed him) — but Jess hadn’t known what to think.

“So she asked me,” Dean told Castiel, but he couldn’t look at the angel. His eyes were glued to the fire, still lost in memories. “She wanted to know if what they were saying was true, if Sam was capable of that. So... I-I told her about Sam’s promise and...”

Tears pricked his eyes, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat again. He could still remember it like it was yesterday: Jess joining him in the Impala where he had spent most nights after Sam disappeared. She had taken one of his beers and drained half of it in one go, and then asked her question. And Dean had known better, but he had been guilt-ridden, and maybe desperate to share his pain with Jess — that he had _known_ something was going to happen to Sam; that he hadn’t done _anything_ to stop to it. But mostly he remembered the silence that followed: Jess staring out the windshield until she had simply set down her beer in a cup holder, and then slid out of the car. When Dean had tried to follow her, she had lashed out at him, screaming at him to leave her alone.

“She was so _mad_ … She was so _hurt_ …” he whispered, as he closed his eyes so tears wouldn’t fall. “I had confirmed her worst fears, and I couldn’t talk her out of it, couldn’t convince her why Sam would do that. And she couldn’t stay any longer; she couldn’t be around _me_. So… so… she _left_.”

And god, it still hurt like nothing else, Dean squeezing his eyes tight, not wanting to remember it. Not that was any use, not when it haunted him like it did: the girls hugging Dean goodbye, Jess touching his arm and whispering, _Take care of yourself, Dean,_ before they boarded the plane to California; going back to Sam’s empty house and just sitting there in the silence. There was no more of the twins’ laughter filling the hallways; no more of Jess humming songs while she studied, or the voices she made when she read the girls one of their favorite books. There were no more family dinners or weekend brunches, or trips to the park to let the girls play and let Bones run around. No more of the home that Sam and Jess had built over the years, and that Dean had been so lucky to have been part of.

There had just been Sam’s promise in Dean’s ears, and not enough alcohol in the world.

And he had been so goddamn _alone_.

But before that feeling could come back to him — that raw, empty hole inside of him that he thought would swallow him whole — a lost, lonely angel reached out and touched his shoulder again. Dean flinched in surprise, his eyes jerking toward him, heart pounding. Castiel’s expression was a mixture of sympathy, but also an epiphany, like he had just realized something about him. Dean didn’t know what to make of that look (what had Castiel figured out about him? That this was all his fault? That Dean was weak?), before the angel’s gaze grew gentle again.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispered, and Dean’s heart felt like it might burst, tears pricking his eyes again.

“No, no, you can’t be sorry for me, Cas,” he protested, shaking his head. “Jess was right to leave. I knew something was going to happen to Sam, and I didn’t do anything to stop it. I tore my family apart: by not helping Sam when I could have, and then by making Jess think her husband and father of her children _abandoned_ them. This is all _my_ fault — I let this _happen_. I could have stopped Sam from ever being abducted.”

And his crimes didn’t stop there: he hadn’t looked for Sam for _months_ , when his brother had been _here_ on this hell-on-earth-of-an-island all this time. He had gotten people killed; he had made Castiel feel like he wasn’t a good enough angel when he was stronger and braver than Dean could ever hope to be. No, Cas couldn’t feel sorry for him. He _couldn’t._

But Castiel gave a slight shake of his head, brow furrowing slightly. He set down his food packet, and turned toward Dean again. “It… _isn’t_ your fault,” he protested.

Dean wasn’t having that though. “It _is,_ ” he snapped, slashing a hand through the air in his anger. “And I have to fix it, Cas. I have to clear my brother’s name. I have to prove he's innocent. I have to get Sammy back home. I have to get my brother back to his family, Cas. I _have_ to.”

Castiel cocked his head, brow furrowing more as he asked, “Is that what you’re living for?”

Dean stiffened. So that was what Castiel had realized about him. But there was no judgment in his eyes, and maybe that was why Dean was honest with him when he replied, “It’s _all_ I have, Cas."

The angel's brow creased again, gaze roving over Dean’s face before he reached out. His fingers touched Dean’s cheek, gentle and warm. “You have me,” Castiel whispered.

Dean’s heart thudded in his chest. All the protests he would have had died in his throat as he read everything that was in Castiel’s blue, blue eyes. There was so much: things that terrified Dean, things he didn’t deserve, things that Dean didn’t know how to deal with (an _angel,_ of all people, looking at him like he could never look away). Yet Castiel wasn’t wrong: Dean had always had him, even just that single memory of him that he cherished so much, that promise that everything would be _okay_. And with everything inside him — that utterly empty feeling of being _alone_ still fresh on his mind — Dean desperately needed that feeling more than anything.

He didn’t mean to kiss Castiel. Not really. But when he did, a mere brush of lips against lips made both of them start, breaths hitching. It felt good, really fucking _good_ compared to everything inside him, and Dean couldn’t help but push in and reach out. Castiel let out another sound, wings rustling as Dean curled his hand into his hair and splayed fingers against heated skin. He kept it gentle, mindful of the cuts and bruises on Cas’s lips as he ran his tongue along them, coaxing them open with a gasp from the angel.

Castiel gave a violent shudder then, his hands snapping to Dean’s body and gripping tight, a desperate plea falling from his lips.

_“Dean.”_

Dean jerked away at that, mind racing as he realized what he had done. _Angel fetish, angel fetish,_ one part of him thought while another berated him with _What is wrong with you?! What the hell is wrong with you?!_

But when he went to move his hands away, Castiel snatched them up, Dean looking over in surprise. His protest died when he saw Castiel’s eyes squeezed shut, his eyelashes wet with tears as his body and wings trembled. He was breathing hard like he had run a marathon, licking his lips before he pushed forward, pressing their foreheads together. Their noses brushed as Castiel drew Dean’s hands back to his body and whimpered again that one desperate word. _“Dean.”_

The _don’t stop_ was clear, and Dean whispered, “it’s okay, it’s okay,” as he brushed Castiel’s chest with his fingers. Castiel whimpered again and bit his lower lip, pushing Dean’s hands harder against him, before sliding his own hands further down so he could clutch at Dean’s wrists. Dean could feel Castiel’s heart pounding where he was stroking his neck, and as he traced his hand down his ridged scars, he watched Castiel’s eyes flickering from beneath his lids, his breath coming out in shuddering gasps.

“Dean,” he pleaded when Dean slid his hand from his neck to his shoulder, his other hand stroking his side. Castiel’s wings fluttered and lifted as if coaxing Dean to touch there, while he pressed against his forehead again, mewling, “Dean. _Dean_.”

“It’s okay,” Dean reassured again, though he had no idea what he was doing, or if this _was_ okay, even if Castiel clearly wanted it. Dean swallowed, unsure, and looked down at his own hands stroking skin that was dark in the dying firelight... at least, what wasn’t marked by scars or bruises.

No matter where Dean looked or touched, a white scar or bruise in various shapes and sizes and shades greeted him, and he _knew_ each one had come from this godforsaken island. Each one was a testament to the life Castiel had lived here, where any touch must have meant some sort of pain. To be touched in any other way must have been a shock to him; Dean remembered how Castiel stared at Dean’s hands while he had wrapped his arm in bandages; how he had jumped in surprise when Dean touched his shoulder to comfort him while he had told him about the ghost. And it was clearly overwhelming for Castiel too, here and now, each shiver and tiny gasp wrenched out of him so close to a sob.

And _fuck_ , it hurt to see. Castiel, _Cas,_ Dean thought, who had lived through hell; who didn’t think he was a good enough angel; who would probably never forgive himself for what he had had to do to survive. Cas, who had been _alone_ for so long that he had forgotten laughter and jokes and how to smile with anything but his eyes; forgotten who he was, his family, his hopes, his dreams. Cas, who, despite it all, was so still so goddamn _strong_ , who was helping him find Sam even though all logic and reason should have made him go straight to the boat.

Dean’s uncertainty faded, and he looked Castiel over again: from his parted lips to the rise of his chest, to the hue of blues that rippled up and down his feathers in the firelight. He wanted to give Cas this, Dean realized. What Castiel wanted: something other than pain he lived with for so long; something that felt _good_. Dean wanted, and the curl of desire settled low in his stomach, his gaze lifting back to Castiel’s face as he sat up, voice rough when he breathed out, “ _Cas_.”

He continued to murmur his name as he tried to take his hands back, though Castiel wasn’t keen to let them move even an inch from his body. As the stronger of the two, Castiel won that battle, and Dean huffed out a laugh, stroking his skin as reward before trying again. Castiel opened his eyes when Dean asked, and his pupils were blown, lined by irises several shades of dark blue. His heavy gaze never left Dean’s as Dean coaxed him forward, grasping his arms to lightly tug him to his lap. Castiel followed like an angel possessed, slotting right into place in the crook of Dean’s lap and, after a little more encouragement, he finally let go of Dean’s hands. His hands moved to Dean’s shoulders, merely grasping them at first before squeezing tight, breath coming out in a surprised gasp as Dean drew him in close, pressing lips and hands back onto his body.

Dean kissed his throat, the dip of his collarbone; slid a hand down the fire-warmed skin, following the curve of Castiel’s back as he arched into the touch. Skimming his knuckles into the dip of his navel made Castiel’s breath hitch; stroking his sides brought on a full body shudder, his wings falling open. When Dean slid his hands into the feathers, combing fingers through the soft down where wing met skin, Castiel groaned loudly, hips jerking against Dean’s stomach. The angel’s head fell back as he panted, Dean kissing his throat again, wings spreading tip to tip as he slid his fingers along the feathers.

Castiel seemed unable to do much more than hold on and murmur, “Dean, _Dean,_ ” in between gasp and pants. When Dean pressed his lips to his scars on his chest, Castiel gave a surprised sound and another jerk of his hips; Dean couldn’t see his face from the position, but he felt Castiel lift back to watch him, a shuddering moan leaving his lips again as he pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead.

Dean wished he could do so much more, that they had more room, more time, so he could spread Castiel out and kiss down the entire length of his body, every inch of his skin, every scar and bruise. For now, he could slide his lips down as far as he could go, imagining he could kiss those wounds and scars and bruises, and the pain they had caused, away.

But Dean didn’t fail to notice when Castiel’s hips found a rhythm rocking against him, and he gave one final kiss and skim of his sides before pulling away. Castiel stilled when Dean settled his hands on the waistband of his trousers, Dean having to hide a sad laugh when he realized they were tied to thin hips by an old, dirty, faded-blue tie. He tugged it off though, peeling open his trousers before sliding his hand inside to the heat and wet between his legs.

Castiel’s breath became ragged, and his gasps of “ _Dean_ ” became more pointed, his wings beating gently to his thrusts against the slide of Dean’s hand. Dean watched as Castiel’s eyes swam with pleasure until they fell shut, and his grip on Dean’s shoulders became so tight that Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if he bruised them. “Dean, Dean,” Castiel choked out desperately as the thrust his hips became raw and frantic, Dean continuing the slow slide of his hand until Castiel tensed up, throwing his head back with a wordless cry.

Dean had to catch him when Castiel slumped against him, holding him through the waves of his orgasm by pressing kisses to his jaw and stroking trembling limbs. Castiel panted for air, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving before his head fell forward, their foreheads pressing together again. He blearily cracked open his eyes, blinking several times before his gaze refocused and he looked at Dean again.

Dean gave him a smile, though it faltered a little when Castiel touched his face with an expression of wonder. He traced his fingers along Dean’s cheek and the ridges of his eyebrows, before it morphed into that look from before, the one that Dean didn’t quite know how to deal with.

It sent a curl of panic through him, and he wanted to make a joke about _encounters_ and orgies or that Cas had probably had left bruises in the shape of handprints on his shoulders. Anything to make that look go away, _anything_ —

Castiel kissed him before those words left his mouth, and Dean so easily sank into it, only tensing again when he felt Castiel’s hand press against his chest and begin a slow descent downward. And while his dick, heavy and hard and ignored, perked up at that, Dean was hesitant, unsure again.

It had been one thing to give this to Castiel, but for Cas to give it back…

“It’s okay.”

Dean looked up at Castiel in surprise, the angel's eyes warm, fond. He brushed Dean’s hair back with one hand and traced fingers down his cheek with the other. “It’s okay,” he whispered again.

Castiel kissed him again, and Dean sank into it with a shuddering gasp. His breath hitched when he felt hands undo his belt and open his jeans, Cas gently grasping him. And it should have been nothing more than the pleasure of the angel’s hand, the gentle tugs at his cock and the heat pooling in his belly, if he wasn’t looking into Castiel’s eyes. Those eyes, blue and vivid, showing what he had chosen after Dean had told him to find something to live for.

 _I want to live for you,_ Castiel’s eyes said, and Dean choked out a gasp, coming hard.

* * *

Castiel ended up holding him, cocooning him in a sea of feathers and nuzzling his face as Dean came down from his high. The fire had almost died, its pops and crackles muted against the sound of rain outside the cave, and the pounding of Dean’s heart.

There was a lot going on in his head — things he wasn’t sure about, things he had never considered — but all that faded away when he looked up at Castiel again.

Cas was _smiling_.

It wasn’t just in his eyes this time, but his lips too, the slightest of curves. But it was a _smile_ , and Dean had to touch it to make sure it was real. It was, and it even grew as Dean traced it with his fingers, breathless.

“You’re smiling,” he whispered, and Castiel let out the softest of chuckles. It was a sound that left Dean breathless again.

“I think I remembered how just now,” Cas murmured, tears sliding down his cheeks before he pressed his forehead to Dean’s again. He shuddered against him, though his smile never left, and Dean had to trace it again, memorizing the look and feel of it.

“Don’t forget again,” he whispered, and the smile grew again before Castiel leaned in to press their lips together.

“I won’t,” he promised against his lips and kissed Dean once more. “I won’t.”


	23. Chapter 23

Dreams of Sam, Jess and the twin laughing and smiling faded as Dean was shaken awake, a familiar voice calling his name.

“Dean,” the voice said again, and Dean cracked open his eyes. “Dean, wake up.”

“Wassit?” he mumbled, bleary eyed as he took in the sight of a half-naked Castiel hovering over him. He could smell spaghetti, and while not on Dean’s top ten list of breakfast items to wake up to, he appreciated that Cas was making something. (Now he just had to tell him that he liked coffee and pie in the morning...)

Castiel said his name again, and Dean forced himself to focus, only to sit up abruptly when the angel said, “I know where your brother is.”

Dean needed a moment to remember that a) he was on an island and b) looking for Sam. He and Cas had stopped to eat and get out of the rain... And now Dean was acutely aware that he was half-naked under the medical kit’s emergency blanket that they had both used as a make-shift bed the night before. There was light streaming in from outside the cave, and that made him look at his watch, cursing when he saw the time. It was _eight in the morning_ — holy shit, he had slept for _thirteen hours_ — but his stab of panic and irritation were cut off when Castiel held up a spoonful of spaghetti.

Dean opened his mouth without thinking, and Castiel slid the spoon right in. The taste and heat of noodles and sauce were better than any slurp of coffee when Dean realized how hungry he was. Okay, maybe MRE spaghetti wasn’t too bad a breakfast food...

“I realized where only now,” Castiel replied to the question Dean hadn’t asked yet. (He had meant to, honest, but, well... spaghetti.) Castiel ate from the same spoon, and then scooped up more for Dean. “The vampirs said your brother smelled of the ghost, which I thought impossible, as it _is_ dead. But the creature inhabited a cave just to the north of here, which could contain faint traces of its scent even after all this time. And if Sam were there…”

“He’d smell like the ghost,” Dean finished around his bite of spaghetti. He swallowed quickly, frowning at the angel. “And you know where the cave is?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and Dean’s heart leapt with hope before he found himself with another spoonful of spaghetti. “Eat, Dean, and dress. I will show you the way.”

Dean grinned ear-to-ear, looking over Castiel. Damn, what would he have done without the angel helping him? “You’re _awesome,_ Cas,” he said, slapping a hand to the angel’s shoulder and squeezing it. Cas’s eyes grew warm and his lip slid into one of his small smiles. Dean’s heart did a happy little flop for it.

They dressed quickly in between bites of food, though Dean let Castiel have the majority of it again. (It seemed Cas had been eating his fill for a while, however, judging from the several empty packets of food on the ground.) Dean had bandages to check, his knee to rewrap, and more clothes to pull on than Castiel did... and Dean also had to pause to watch as the angel slid his wings into his trench coat. Dean then did a weapons check, but frowned when Castiel, slurping away at noodles, suddenly tensed.

His wings tightened against his back as he looked toward the cave entrance, head cocked as he listened. Before Dean could ask what it was, he heard it too: a low, echoing howl that sent chills down his spine.

_Hellhounds._

* * *

From atop a hill that Castiel led him to, lying flat on the ground hidden by snow-covered rocks and shrubs, Dean peered through his binoculars down at the hellhounds.

There were three in total, faces painted to look like their skulls, as was the demons’ fashion. Their big black bodies loped easily through the trees and undergrowth, one of the dogs occasionally pausing to smell a tree trunk or a pile of freshly fallen snow. It wasn’t just them though (not that they weren't bad enough): holding their leashes, were five demons. They were packing some serious heat too — grenades, hunting rifles, shotguns — and were far too close to their position for Dean’s comfort.

“Are they tracking us?” he asked, lowering his binoculars to look at Castiel next to him. The angel didn’t need binoculars to see, his eyes much more powerful than Dean's (or whatever he had said). His pupils refocused on Dean when he looked at him and he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” Castiel murmured, looking confused. “They usually let the dogs flush us out and corner us. Unless...”

“Unless?” Dean asked when Castiel trailed off, and then frowned when the angel looked from the demons to the northwest.

“Unless they are going after the ghost because they believe it to be alive,” Castiel whispered. Dean stiffened. “They would just follow its scent right to its cave.”

 _Sam,_ Dean thought with a stab of panic, and then he was staggering to his feet, babbling, “We gotta’ get to Sam, we gotta’ get him out of there—”

“No.”

Dean turned to Castiel in shock. “No?!” he snapped, but then hesitated when he saw the look in Castiel’s eyes. And when that look shifted to him, Dean’s breath hitched.

“No,” Castiel repeated in a voice like steel, and even if Dean wanted to, he was unable to look away. Not from the fire in his eyes, not from his sheer aura.

“No,” the angel went on, shaking his head. “No more of this, Dean. I've... I’ve run enough. The daemons, the monster... _Dick Roman_. They have hurt enough people. They’ve hurt you and your family, they’ve hurt the lycanthrope and the vampirs, they’ve hurt my brethren. _No more_.”

Dean caught himself licking his lips, while Castiel smiled, his eyes narrowing. “Let us strike _them_ , Dean. Let us show them what an angel is capable of; what a human is capable of. Let's show them why they should fear _us_.”

His sword slid into his hand and his wings lifted off his back, and Dean could almost see Castiel’s silver-and-blue armor and great black wings again. And that alone would have garnered his _yes_ , but it was to Cas that he nodded to, and grinned.

_Let’s._

* * *

The plan was simple: Dean was Castiel’s signal to attack, and that signal was the death of the first hellhound. For a dog that was built like a fucking bear, it helped to have a gun that could take down bears, and Dean quickly found the safe vantage point atop the hill Cas had directed him to. It put him perpendicular to the demon’s path, and right in firing range.

He found the wind’s direction, letting loose a pinch of dirt in the breeze. It was still overcast and cloudy, the wind bringing in the promise of rain and snow later in the day. But it was a good position for Dean, and he set up the Winchester rifle, leveling it on a few rocks before peering through the scope.

Up close, the dogs were that more fearsome looking, with their glossy red eyes, the muscles that rippled under their skin as they walked along, and drool dripping from their massive teeth. But as big as they were, they had their weak spots, and Dean zeroed in on one the dog’s heads.

“Sorry, Fido,” he whispered — even though he really wasn’t — sucking in one deep breath to hold before firing.

Castiel struck like a missile before the dog had even hit the ground, bullet through its eye and out the other side. The first two demons were already dead in that heartbeat, sword and Sam’s knife wrenched out of their necks as Castiel rocketed off their bodies. Dean couldn’t watch him for too long, pulling at the rifle’s bolt to reload and take aim at the next dog. The bullet ripped through its neck in his next inhale, while it was turning to look back at the commotion.

Dean heard rapid gunfire and screams: In the scope, he could see Castiel nearly ten feet in the air and completely horizontal, while the two demons riddled themselves with bullets when they had both turned to fire at him. The last dog and demon turned almost in slow motion to see what was happening, just in time for a bullet and a blade to slice right through their necks.

It had taken less than a minute, maybe even thirty seconds, Dean exhaling as he lifted up from the scope and looked over the fallen bodies. _Son a bitch_ , he thought before looking over at Castiel, standing in the center of the carnage, cool and collected as ever. When he looked over at Dean, his lips slid into a smirk.

Dean swallowed, his movements almost robotic as he attached the rifle back to his bag, and then headed down the hill toward the angel. Castiel approached him as well, the same fire in his eyes from before, his gaze never leaving Dean’s. Dean swallowed again, feeling his heart start to pound: Castiel rocking that fierce, absolute angel thing, was more than enough to get Dean going... But that look in his eyes, like Castiel wanted to _eat_ him in a _good_ way, was something Dean really, _really_ wanted—

And it was exactly what he got when they met halfway, Castiel shoving him up against a tree and sealing their mouths sealed together. Dean groaned low and long from deep in his throat as weapons and clothes were shoved out of the way so Castiel could push a hot hand against his stomach. The angel’s other hand buried itself in Dean’s hair, Dean hissing when his head was pulled back, Castiel’s lips sliding down to his neck where he let out the most animalistic growl he had ever heard. He nipped his neck and Dean’s dick lurched — an angel was marking him, Castiel was marking him, _fuck_ — his hands jerking to life. He dragged Castiel’s hips against his own, sliding his leg between Cas’s to give him something to grind on, while the angel’s hand went for Dean’s belt—

And stopped. Dean groaned in frustration, but it took him a moment to open his eyes to see what the holdup was. He finally managed to crack them open, and then tensed when he saw Castiel’s face, the fear in his eyes. But before Dean could ask what was wrong, a familiar voice rang out.

“Isn’t that just _adorable_.”

If an armed demon wasn’t right there with an assault rifle trained on them, Dean would have snapped his pistol up and shot the newcomer right between the eyes then and there. He could only grip his gun in its holster tightly instead, while Castiel whipped around, every feather he had bristling as his sword fell in his hand. His pupils slitted and he bared his teeth; Dean almost did the same, his vision going red as he again took in the sight of the man — the _monster_ — that had terrorized and terrified everyone on this island.

Dick Roman.

He almost didn’t look real, with his clean skin, healthy weight, and pristine clothes: vest and slacks, knee-high boots, leather gloves, long wool coat, a tie. While everyone else on this island was struggling to survive — and every moment of it was carved into their bodies — Dick looked like he was out for a Sunday stroll… or a hunt, if the pistol strapped to his thigh and the rifle slung over his shoulder were any indication. And he didn’t seem at all bothered by the pissed-off angel or human in front of him, chuckling as he looked at the demon at his side.

“You know what they say, Abel,” he said to her, grin dark. The demon, blue rings of her black eyes visible, glanced at him. “The animals are happy when they start breeding.”

The demon let out a sound that could have been a laugh, while Dean felt his anger spike. Any embarrassment he felt for being caught in such a compromising position died, and his grip tightened on his pistol, a snarl leaving his gritted teeth. “Go to hell, you sick son of a bitch,” he spat, and Dick looked back at him.

His dark eyes narrowed, flickering over Dean as he was trying to make them out. Then he brightened, grin spreading to reveal his too-white teeth. “Dean Winchester, is that you?” he drawled, as if he _hadn’t_ recognized Dean the moment he saw him. “So this is where you’ve been. I’ve been worried about you, Dean: Running off before receiving the grand tour.”

His eyes flicked to Castiel then, the angel tensing. “But it’s good to see you’ve been enjoying your stay on my island,” Dick murmured with a grin, and Dean felt his anger flare up again.

“Don’t _talk_ to him,” he spat, and Dick glanced back at him. So did Castiel, surprised. “Don’t even _look_ at him or I will _kill_ you, right here, right now.”

Dick’s nostrils flared once, his grin spreading, revealing more and more teeth. “You really think you can kill me, Dean?” he murmured, and Dean snorted.

“You think your demon bodyguard here is protecting you?” he shot back, gesturing toward her. She looked back at him, her gaze having traveled away to look at the slew of carnage he and Castiel had left behind. She stared at him as he added, “Think I can’t kill her too before she can even get off a shot?”

It was bold claim, but that had never stopped Dean before. Yet he was determined to make it happen this time, and not just because they had no other choice. He didn’t know if Dick planned to take them prisoner again or just kill them outright, but that didn’t matter to Dean, not really. He was just so _pissed_ : that Castiel was afraid; that he had been afraid of Dick too once. After everything he had learned about the man, there was good reason to be afraid… But Dean was too angry to be.

He stepped forward, pressing against Castiel’s shoulder, the angel glancing at him again. Dean glanced back long enough to see the fear in his eyes, and to reassure him. He didn’t know how they were getting out of this yet, but he wasn’t afraid and Castiel didn’t need to be either. Castiel’s eyes flickered, the fear not leaving them, but when he gave the tiniest nod, Dean's lips twitched toward a smile before he turned back to Dick.

“So yeah,” he told him, smirking, “I think I can kill you.”

Dick ran his tongue along his lower lips, eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Ah, that Winchester self-confidence,” he drawled again, and then looked him up and down twice. “It’s good to see you have it, too, Dean. It’s one thing I liked about your brother. It made him so _frisky_.”

Dean felt his jaw clench at the mention of Sam — yet another reason to put a bullet in between Dick’s eyes, especially when they were so close to finding him.

“Are you as smart as him, too, I wonder?” Dick went on, eyes narrowing with a curious look. “I doubted it for a minute there when you ran off, but I know not to underestimate you Winchesters.”

“Well, at least you ain’t stupid there,” Dean spat back, and Dick chuckled.

“Can’t do what I do with looks alone, Dean,” he murmured with another toothy grin, hands sliding into his pockets. “But I’ll admit: I underestimated your brother’s crusade in bringing me down if he sent you to kill me.”

Dean wanted to laugh at the irony of that. “What can I say? We’re committed,” he said instead with another smirk, and Dick’s eyes narrowed again, nostrils flaring once more.

“In which case, I say: Color me impressed,” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “Usually threatening to kill a man’s wife and children if he doesn't back off is enough for him to stop, not assume it’s a bluff.”

Dean froze.

 _Promise me, Dean_ , Sam whispered in the back of his mind as Dean's heart grew thunderous in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel glance at him, eyes wide. _If anything happens to me, promise me you’ll look after them._

Jess, the twins...

“Unless, of course, he didn’t,” Dick said with a dark grin. “And that makes you far more interesting, Dean Winchester.”

Sam’s words repeated themselves over and over in Dean’s ears as he felt his blood grow cold. That was why he had made Dean make that promise, he thought. That was why he told Dean not to find out what happened to him. Not to give Dean something to live for, but so he would _protect their family because Dick had threatened to kill them._

 _Oh no,_ Dean thought, his throat growing tight. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel his hands shaking, tears pricking his eyes.  _What had he done?_

“So what's your plan, Dean? Do you plan to kill off all my men, before you come after me?” Dick asked, sounding a million miles away. Castiel was still tense against him, but his wing did brush his side, not that Dean could accept any comfort, not anymore.

He swallowed, the world tilting and shifting, like a hole had opened up under his feet and he was teetering over the edge. _Promise me, Dean,_ Sam whispered in his ear over and over, and it was almost too much for Dean. If he had gotten his entire family _killed_ by coming here...

But no, he couldn't think that. He _couldn't_. Dick hadn't said he had, and Dean was going to have to hope he hadn't followed through.But now more than ever, Dick Roman had to be stopped. For Cas, Sam, but more importantly, Jess, the twins, Dean _had_ to end him. He looked up at Dick again, guilt and horror mixing with his anger, making him see red once more.

“I’m going to _murder_ you,” he whispered, and Dick grinned again.

“That’s some conviction you have there, Dean,” he murmured, lips twitching toward another grin. Then he gestured around them. “But you’ve already failed once. And here we are, at our little standoff... Until more of my men arrive, of course.”

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat, forcing himself to focus, to take everything in. He noticed that the demon kept looking away, distracted by the bodies of her dead comrades. “I’ll kill them all, too,” he muttered, and glanced at Castiel, the angel frowning as he went on, “With a knife in the head or a bullet through the skull, I’ll figure it out.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Dean knew he got his message when his eyes shifted to the demon.

Dean looked back at Dick, tightening his grip on his gun again. “I failed once, you’re right. But I won’t this time,” he growled, anger driving him. “You took my brother, you’ve threatened my family; you’ve tortured and starved people, _kids._  You’ve hunted them like animals, made them believe they were nothing more than meat. And for what? For _fun_? You know, when we first met, you said there’s no such thing as monsters. But you are a monster, Dick. Just not the kind they should fear.”

Dick’s eyes bored into his own; his grin became all teeth. “Ah, sometimes I forget how passionate humans can be; how strong it makes them,” he murmured, running a tongue along his lips again. “You know, Dean, I’d love to hunt you.”

“And I’d love to shoot you right between the eyes,” Dean replied. Castiel tensed beside him, ready to move. “Guess which one is going to happen first.”

Dean didn’t give him a chance to reply. In the half-second it took Castiel to throw the knife straight into the demon’s skull, Dean had snapped his pistol up and fired—

—And then stared in surprise when Dick merely sidestepped, the roar of the gun fading.

Castiel let out a sound of anguish. Dick, still grinning, licked his lips again. “The hunt it is then,” he said and before Dean could even pull the trigger, before he could even blink, Dick had whipped his pistol from his holster and fired right at him.

Dean let out a cry as pain exploded from the side of his arm, the bullet nicking flesh. Gun falling from his grip, cursing and staggering, he clutched his bleeding arm, seeing through his blurring vision that Castiel was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

He turned to Dick, his wings spreading wide before he bolted forward, nothing more than a blur as he threw himself at Dick. Castiel struck with several rapid kicks to the abdomen, chest and face. As Dick’s head was thrown back, Castiel whipped his arm forward, sword arching and aimed right for his neck. Dean could almost see the spray of blood as Dick’s head was nearly sliced off, and felt his heart leap, only for it to come to a screeching halt when Dick caught Castiel’s wrist mid-strike.

Castiel jerked in place, and then his wings drooped as Dick’s head rolled back. His grin grew, his eyes dark as they fell down to Castiel. “So you do still have some fight in you, Angel,” he hissed and, while Dean gaped, he grabbed Castiel by his coat lapels. “Let’s see how much.”

Dean could only watch in horror as Dick hurled Castiel away, the angel slamming into a tree with a sickening crack. Castiel fell to the ground, Dean’s gasp of “Cas!” lost in his throat at the sight of Dick turning toward him. Pain or not, Dean let go of his arm to twist his assault rifle forward, but Dick was faster, his pistol up in a flash. Dick fired again, once, twice, Dean ducking as bullets flew over his head, bark exploding from the tree behind him. When he glanced back up, Dick was right in front of him, snatching the rifle in his hands before Dean could even blink. He twisted the barrel around, metal screeching as it was turned in a direction it was never supposed to go in.

He let it go and it fell back against Dean’s side. He stared down at it, wondering if that actually just happened: Dick catching an angel’s arm in mid strike and tossing him aside like he was a toy; or this, twisting the barrel of a gun around like it was silly putty.

He looked back up at Dick, at his toothy grin and dark eyes, and whispered, “What are you?”

Dick smirked, and then held up a finger, with a “hold that thought,” before he twisted back. Castiel’s sword missed him by millimeters, Dean jumping in surprise, barely catching a glimpse of vivid blue eyes in the sea of blood on his face. Castiel’s feet slid along the dirt and the sword flipping around in his hand as he slashed his arm back up. Dick dodged it, chuckling again when Castiel whipped forward, air whistling with the speed of his strike. Castiel darted after him, keeping up his assault, Dick avoiding each one.

“Excellent form, Angel!” he goaded, sidestepping another sword slash. “A-plus! Doing your species proud!”

Castiel followed his strike with a roundhouse kick. It missed once more and, while he was landing, Dick’s arm flew out in a blur. Dean jumped again, while the blade fell from Castiel’s hand with a clatter, wings flapping weakly as he clawed at the hand at his neck. Dick squeezed and Castiel fell still, chest heaving as Dick drew in him, looking him over thoughtfully.

“Shame it’s fear that’s driving you,” he murmured, his grin fading for a sneer. “It’s always been your species’ weakness: Fear. What you can’t control; what you can’t defeat. When all your skills, all your training mean nothing, what then? It’s a question I thought you learned the answer to, Angel.”

Castiel’s wings flapped weakly while his grip on Dick’s hand turned white. Dean, panting and stricken with fear and confusion, froze when Dick shifted his head, jaw moving back and forth, seeming to grow and expand the more he moved.

When he opened his mouth again, it was all razor-sharp teeth; Dean could only think _what the fuck_ while Dick said, “Pity, too. But, no reason to waste a perfectly good meal, hm?”

Castiel panicked, wings flailing as he clawed at Dick’s hand. Dean could only watch as Dick’s jaw swung loose again, extending rows of sharp teeth and revealing a forked tongue as it opened wide with a rattling hiss.

 _What the fuck?!_ Dean thought when Castiel let out a high whimper, which jerked him out of his haze. He went for his other pistol with his left hand, grip bloody and slippery. He knew his aim was off, but he took the shot anyway just as Dick leaned in toward the angel, jaws wide.

The bullet grazed Dick's forehead, and while he uttered no sound of pain, he dropped Castiel. Dean got a glimpse of black blood oozing from Dick’s wound; Castiel, meanwhile, arms shooting out to catch him before he hit the ground, bent his legs back toward his torso and then snapped them forward like a whip. Dick let out an “oof” sound as he was struck hard in the chest, the force of the impact sending him sailing back into the sea of ferns and trees.

Castiel pushed off his arms to flip onto his feet, but his legs gave out when he touched the ground. Dean rushed over to catch him, Castiel slumping against him, wings drooping listlessly as he panted for air. Dean kept his gun pointing at the ferns where Dick disappeared, only looking over when Castiel grasped his shirt, fingers curling tightly in it.

“Dean,” he croaked. His eyes were unfocused, and it sounded like someone had ripped out his vocal chords and dragged them over sharp glass. “Dean, you have to go.”

Dean heard him, he did, but his mind was still several steps behind, eyes moving back toward the ferns where Dick was starting to laugh. “Cas, what is he?” he whispered, and Castiel let out a desperate sound.

“A _Leviathan_ ,” he hissed.

Dean had no fucking what that was. Castiel began to push him, with his hand and wing. “Dean, _please_ , you must go. You must—”

He cut himself off when Dick began firing at them again, Castiel dragging Dean down as bullets whizzed over their heads; _suppression fire,_ Dean realized — Dick's shots aimed only to pin them down. The fact that he hadn’t shot them already — to kill or to immobilize — scared the fuck out of Dean. When he saw Dick moving toward them again, he found himself thinking hysterically, _Maybe he prefers a hands-on approach_.

Castiel tugged him behind a tree, both of them pressing close together to hide behind the safety of the trunk. Bullets hit the wood with vicious thunks while Castiel looked over at Dean and gasped, “You have to go. Find your brother. I’ll hold him off.”

Dean cursed as gunshots grew steadily louder, shaking his head. “No, no, Cas, he’ll _kill_ you.”

“He will kill us _all,_ ” Castiel protested, and Dean winced, knowing he was right. Dick, whatever the fuck he was, would kill them (and _eat_ them), but Dean could feel it deep in his gut that no amount of running was going to save them. Cas, Sam. None of them were safe.

“We have to kill him,” he whispered and Castiel gave him a helpless look. Dean shook his head again, glancing over his shoulder to the Winchester rifle attached to his bag. “I still have the rifle. If I hit him with that, it’ll take him down, I know it.”

But that idea also presented a whole host of problems. Dean cringed. “He’s fast, though. We’ll have to catch him off guard.”

How they could possibly do that was answered when Castiel looked from him, to the gun, and then back. “Go,” he said, and Dean frowned quickly. “Find a spot. I’ll lead him to you.”

“What?” Dean hissed, but Castiel met his eyes. Though the angel was scared, _terrified,_ Dean could also read his, _This is our only hope_.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he cursed, but nodded.

Castiel’s eyes flickered over him twice; his hand, holding Dean’s sleeve, tightened. A rush of emotions filled his eyes — fear, pain, regret, longing — before they narrowed in determination. “Cover me until I retrieve my sword,” he whispered.

With another nod and a deep breath, Dean waited until Castiel gave him a signal. It came in the lull of Dick’s gunshots, and Dean twisted around the tree to fire his pistol once, twice, aiming at nothing but keeping Dick down. It gave Castiel the time he needed to bolt forward, sweeping his sword up from the ground and launching himself at Dick again.

It took everything in Dean to tear himself away; to not watch Castiel’s battle. He forced himself to move, pushing past the pain in his knee to hobble away as fast as he could, dropping his assault rifle, now only dead weight. He had to ignore the pain in his arm too, swinging the Winchester rifle forward and digging through the bag to grab another magazine and slap it in. All the while he looked for a place to set up, anywhere that Dick wouldn’t see him and where Dean would be in range to get off a shot. He kept moving, trying to ignore the sound of Dick’s laughter from the forest behind him, hoping Castiel hadn’t been caught again...

When he suddenly stumbled out of the forest and found himself facing the ocean, Dean’s breath caught in his throat as he looked out at the gray sky and water, the wind rushing salty air into his eyes. He could hear waves pounding far below the cliff side; could see the stretch of rocky coast that lined the island. The wind roared in his ears and tugged at his clothes, and Dean cursed.

This was the worst possible place to be, and he quickly turned around to go back to the forest. Only he didn’t even manage a step before Dick emerged from the trees.

Dean’s heart leaped, and he let out another curse when Dick’s gun trained on him, striding forward. Dean didn’t have time to think, backing up as Dick started firing. _Son of a bitch, son of a bitch_ , he thought, torn between ducking and trying not to trip over rocks; he ducked shot number three, mind racing: Where was Cas? What had happened to Cas?!

Dick snarled suddenly, stumbling forward; Dean’s mouth dropped when the angel appeared a second later. He leapt over Dick, wings flaring out in the air; the wind, much to Dean’s surprise, caught him like a sail and he soared back. Dean followed his flight as Castiel glided over him, before looking back at Dick. The monster caught his feet, Dean catching a glimpse of the silver sword sticking out of his shoulder blade.

It was the distraction Dean needed, and he swung the rifle upward to his cheek, pain racing up his arm as he took aim. Through the scope, he could see Dick lifting up, gun in hand aiming right back at him. Dean cursed, aim tossed out the window; he fired just as Dick did, gunshots going off like twin explosions.

Dean’s bullet almost hit home, black blood spraying in the air as the full force of the blow sent Dick stumbling back again. He had only hit his shoulder, but Dick’s shot had missed Dean entirely, and Dean took full advantage of it. There was no way in hell he would let Dick get another shot in, and this time, he targeted Dick’s heart.

But just as he lined up his shot, a thump from behind him made him glance over his shoulder.

That was where he saw Castiel hitting the ground, one wing looked like it had been twisted backwards, blood splattered all over his trench coat’s shoulder. His blue eyes were dim as they looked at Dean.

It was the only glimpse Dean got before Castiel slipped off the edge of the cliff.

It felt like time stopped; Dean barely hearing anything over the roar of his pounding heart. _Cas_ , was his only thought as the rifle slipped from his hands. He didn’t hesitate; didn't even think.

He only ran for the cliff edge and leaped.


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

  **Six Months Ago**

* * *

_Promise me, Dean._

Those words had been heavy on Dean’s mind all day: while he getting the girls ready for preschool; during his telenovelas when he was supposed to be studying; at dinner as he stared at Sam’s empty seat at the dining room table. _Promise me._

“Hey, think you can handle the rugrats?” Dean asked Jess when evening rolled around and the twins wanted to watch _Finding Nemo_ for the umpteenth time. The twins were on the sofa curled up against their mother, eyes glued to the television. Joan’s plush Nemo was plopped on the medical journal Jess was reading so _Nemo can watch too, Unca’ Dean_. “Thinking about callin’ it a night,” he said.

Jess smiled, twirling a lock of Mary’s blond tresses around her finger. “I think I can manage,” she said, and then grinned slyly up at him. “Why? Is there a History Channel special on angels tonight?”

It was an old joke between them, and Dean winked at her. “You know it,” he lied with a grin, before he reached over and ruffled the twins’ hair with both hands. “Night, kiddos.”

Joan and Mary were too entranced by the movie to reply, Jess laughing into her hand at the face Dean made. But it was well-known he could never compete with brightly colored fish, and with a roll of his eyes, he bid Jess goodnight and headed off. But instead of going down to his room in the basement, he took a detour upstairs, quietly making his up before Jess noticed. The only one who did notice was Bones, the golden retriever lifting his head as Dean passed by his spot on the landing.

Sam’s office was at the end of the hallway, his door slightly cracked open and letting out a sliver of light. Inside, Dean wasn’t surprised to find his brother at his desk like always, still in his work clothes, eyes glued to his laptop as usual. His half-eaten dinner was on one corner of his giant mahogany desk, almost lost in the papers and log books covering the rest of it. That was nothing compared to the board on the wall behind him, filled with charts, graphs, maps, financial reports, newspaper clippings, God only knew what else. It framed his brother’s head like a shrine; in fact, with a few candles, it’d probably would be one, Dean thought darkly.

None of the stuff he was working on really meant anything to Dean, but it was everything to Sam — his brother kept saying it was the case that could make-or-break his career. But after almost two years of work, Dean was starting to wonder what the hell this… what was his name? Yeah. _Dick_. What the hell _Dick Roman_ had done that warranted taking over his brother’s life?

And, Dean thought as he looked over Sam, it made him wonder if this case had had anything to do with what his brother had asked him.

_If anything happens to me, promise me you’ll look after them..._

“So,” Dean drawled, using his heel to shut Sam’s office door behind him. His brother’s eyes slowly drifted up from laptop screen. “You have something you want to tell me, Sam?”

Sam blinked once. Twice. Then he lifted an eyebrow at him. “Tell you?” he repeated.

Dean didn’t buy his confusion for a second, searching Sam’s face for answers. There was nothing to glean though — something that frustrated him: when had he stopped being able to read Sam so easily? — so Dean knew he had to be blunt. “You in some kinda trouble, Sam?”

He hoped to catch Sam off guard, but his brother merely lifted his eyebrow again. “No? Why would you think I was in trouble, Dean?”

“ _Promise me, Dean_ ,” Dean mimicked sarcastically. “ _Promise me if something happens._ Why the hell do you think, Sam? What the hell was that?!”

Sam stared at him blankly — as if he didn’t remember ever saying that, as if Dean dreamed it up — before he was rolling his eyes. Dean felt his anger spike, watching as Sam sat back in his chair and sighed, long and heavy, like Bones had peed on the carpet or something. It didn't help Dean's mood any.

“I was having a moment, Dean. You know? Those things you hate?” Sam said sarcastically, waving a hand at him. Dean glowered while his brother sighed, reaching up to loosen his tie. “That’s all it was. Seeing my family happy, the home Jess and I built, the lives we have... I wanted to know they’d be taken care of if something happened to me. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow for all we know.”

Dean grunted, and turned his glare to Sam’s bookcases. They were matched the wood of Sam's desk, every book lined neatly inside with the occasional break for a family photo or plaque. Sam had always been OCD about his arranging his books alphabetically by author, and Dean liked to go in and place c’s with o’s and then back with c’s and then with k’s, and so on. Since he had last done that, they hadn’t been changed, Sam either not noticing or not caring.

That was a bad sign if Dean had ever saw one, and it was just one of many things lately. And it wasn’t just the late nights and way-too-early mornings; it wasn’t just Sam taking off to follow up on a lead or meet up with one of his contacts. It was just how he had seemed to grow more and more distance the further he got into this case, or how annoyed he got every time Dean had tried to take a peek at what he was working on.

It was just how Sam had looked at Jess and the girls — eyes tired and haunted — before he turned to Dean and murmured, _Promise me_.

But Dean had to wonder if he was over thinking it, seeing things that weren’t there. What if it was just Sam having a moment? What if he was making something of nothing? Was this any different than when Sam had been in college, or studying for his bar exam? When he had became an assistant district attorney, all of them knew big cases like this would happen, and would take all of Sam’s time and attention.

So why did this rub Dean all the wrong way?

 _Promise me, Dean_.

“I just don’t know why’d you have to ask me that, Sam,” he muttered bitterly, glaring over at Sam’s wall, once holding all his certificates and awards, now plastered with case notes. _Friggin’ Dick Roman_ , Dean thought. Whatever was going on with Sam, it was all Dick's fault. “I wouldn’t ask you something like that.”

“Yeah you would.”

Dean frowned, glancing at Sam. His brother sighed as he sat forward in his chair, and looked at Dean with eyes far too old for his age. It was the same look from before too, when he had made Dean make a promise, and it still sent the same chills down Dean’s spine. “If you loved someone, Dean, you would.”

* * *

**Present**

* * *

_Promise me,_ Sam whispered as Dean opened his eyes. He was floating in darkness, his limbs oddly pale and suspended in midair. Silence pressed into his ears, but when a flurry of bubbles escaped him, they made an oddly cavernous sound. Dean frowned as he followed the bubbles' path upward, where faint light swayed back and forth above him, but grew smaller and smaller the longer he stared at it in confusion.

 _Am I... underwater?_ Dean wondered, before realization struck him, _hard._

_Cas._

More bubbles escaped him as Dean was then slammed with what felt like a thousand needles stabbing him all at once. The water was _freezing_ , and for a moment he couldn’t think about anything but the cold suffocating him, every inch of him in pain. In a panic, he tried to swim up toward the surface, but he found he was only sinking further. _Oh shit,_ he thought with another burst of bubbles.

It took some twisting and squirming before he realized it was his bag that was dragging him down, medical kit and gear too heavy. He struggled to free himself, black spots starting to form in his eyes and his chest tightening like a vice around his pounding heart. When the bag finally slipped free, he kicked away from it and kicked for the surface again. He had to get to the surface, he thought frantically, his entire vision turning black. He had to get to Cas, had to _save_ Cas—

“Cas!” he screamed after he burst from the water, the sound lost over the waves. Dean twisted around, panting as looked at the bobbing mass of brown rocks that were the island’s cliff sides. Castiel was nowhere in sight and Dean turned again, spotting a familiar tan overcoat floating nearby. “Cas!”

He swam over, grasping the coat with one hand and bumping into wings that swayed up and down in the water. One was twisted, a broken mast of a sunken ship, but they both sank into the water when Dean pulled on the coat and Cas emerged. His eyes were closed, lips blue and skin pale; blood oozed up from where he had hit his head, forming red rivulets down his wet face.

“Cas, Cas, fuck,” Dean hissed, dragging him close to press his fingers against his neck and his ear to his lips. But Cas was too cold, and the wind ripping against the water so loud, that Dean couldn’t see, feel or hear anything. A sob built into Dean’s throat, but his medical instincts took over just as quickly. He tilted Castiel’s head back, swiping at the foam around his nose and lips, before sealed his lips over his mouth and breathing in.

In the water, Dean couldn’t even tell if his chest rose, if the air had done anything for him. He fought another sob and then looked toward the island. They were only a short distance from the cliff side, waves crashing against the jutting rocks towering above them. The nearest shoreline looked miles away, but Dean had no other choice to head for it. He had to get them both out of the water, and  _soon,_ before the cold killed them both. He turned back to Cas, gathering him up to his chest and holding tight. The angel's wings drooped under the water, dark gray feathers lost in the murky-gray and foam of the water.

“Hold on, Cas, hold on,” Dean told him, before pushing forward, paddling with his legs and free arm, only pausing to breathe into Castiel's mouth again and to say, “Hold on, okay? Don’t die on me. _Don’t die_.”

It was a painfully, exhausting swim, the waves rough and the freezing water making it hard to breathe or move. As Dean got closer to shoreline, swimming became that much harder, waves forcing them back, turning them away, threatening to sweep them straight against razor-sharp rocks. Then the waves were shoving them both underwater, Dean struggling to hold onto Castiel and swim toward the surface at the same time. Each time he emerged spitting out water and dragging Castiel close, breathing into him as fast as he could before the water shoved them both down again.

When he emerged once more, Dean noticed someone standing on the beach, looking out toward them. Then they were sprinting up onto the rocks and diving into the water, popping out not too far from them a moment later. Dean tensed as the person/animal/ _thing_ swam toward them, and he curled his arm tightly around Cas, twisting his body around so he shielded the angel’s.

“Stay back!” he barked at the other person when they drew closer. The person hesitated at that, bobbing with the sea until a wave crashed into them and sent them both underwater.

“I can help!” the person cried after they surfaced again, Dean looking him over. He was heavily bearded man, long hair plastered to his face — and he looked _human_. But he could have been sporting a lifeguard vest and a California tan, and Dean still wouldn’t have wanted him anywhere near him or Cas. However, he was also in the way, and Dean couldn’t fight the water, this stranger and keep Castiel afloat and breathing at the same time.

There was only one real way to determine if this person was a threat. “Show me your teeth!”

The man gave him a bewildered look, but he opened his mouth wide. Dean could see no large demon canines or vampire fangs, but that wasn’t any comfort, not like it should have been.

After all, Dick had looked human too, hadn’t he?

“I’m human!” the man yelled, mouth still open wide, but that wasn’t good enough. Dean snarled and pulled Cas tighter against his chest.

“I said stay back!” he barked again, and the man complied, but swam close as they headed toward shore.

They didn’t have to swim much farther, as the waves ended up tossing them onto the beach. Dean slammed into a rock, his ribs exploding in pain, and it left him gasping as he hauled Castiel up in his arms. Cas’s wings draped listlessly along his sides as Dean stumbled up the rocky shore, slipping on algae and strands of kelp that was scattered across the beach. He almost dropped Castiel when his knee gave out on him, but Dean shoved past the pain until he got him a safe distance away from the waves. After a quick glance to see where the man was — and he was wisely doing as told and staying a respectable distance away on the nearby rocks — Dean lay Castiel down.

He looked the angel over, mind racing with the steps that had practically been seared into it.

_Restore and maintain breathing/heartbeat; stop bleeding; protect wounds; immobilize fractures; treat shock._

It turned out Castiel wasn’t breathing, and Dean had the slight hysterical thought of _Maybe angels don’t need to breathe._ But he shoved it aside, pushing Cas’s head back and pressing his mouth to his again and breathing in deep.

Cas’s chest lifted and Dean’s heart leapt, his fingers scrambling to feel for a pulse at the angel’s neck. It was almost impossible to feel against Cas’s cold skin and Dean’s trembling fingers, but then he caught the faint, erratic beat. Dean felt his own heart leap again; now if Castiel would only breathe on his own... But even if he didn’t, Dean knew he could do that for him, and he did, leaning back in. He could get Cas whatever oxygen he needed for however long he needed it, as long as he didn’t die, because he _couldn’t_ die _, he could not die_ —

But not breathing wasn’t his only issue, Dean glancing over at the soaked, twisted wing strewn along the rocks. Blood was everywhere, staining the rocks and water, and Dean’s medical know-how failed him right then and there. He knew _shit_ about angel wings — his level of training didn’t extend past humans and werewolves. How the hell did he treat it?

That was forgotten when Cas’s body jerked, and Dean pulled away just as the angel coughed violently and then threw up water, bile and pretty much everything he had eaten. Dean quickly cleared it away, and he about to go in for another round of mouth-to-mouth when he saw Cas’s chest heave again, and then his eyes snapped open. His pupils were slitted, eyes confused, legs dragging up along the rocks. But he relaxed when he saw Dean, who let out a sound that somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Oh god, Cas, you stupid son of a bitch,” he breathed, grinning, but it was gone when Cas seized up with a mournful sound.

“ _Dean_ , it _hurts,_ ” he gasped, and Dean looked back to his injured wing. Lack of knowledge or not, Dean was about to crash course in wing care, and he reached for his bag and the medical kit that was inside. But it took his hand closing around empty air several times before he remembered that he had lost it in the water, and his stomach dropped.

 _What do I do, what do I do?_ he thought frantically before looking over when Castiel’s hand clamped down hard on his arm.

Dean’s eyes followed to where Castiel was looking, and he noticed that the man from before was approaching them. Dean quickly bared his teeth without thinking, leaning protectively over Castiel as he snapped, “I said stay back!”

The man didn’t even react, only just staring at him with wide hazel eyes. His lips barely moved as he whispered, “Dean?”

Dean froze. He knew that voice. He would have known that voice anywhere, though it seemed like it had been years since he had last heard it. His heart began to pound and it took several blinks before his eyes cleared enough that he could properly see the man. He was soaking wet and clearly underweight, tattered clothes soaked through and through, his beard thick and hair somehow longer than ever. But Dean recognized him, and _how_.

“Sammy?” he whispered, and the man jerked like he had been shot. But it was him, it was _Sam_. Dean drank in the sight of his brother, before tears pricked his eyes and his voice broke. “ _S-Sammy?_ ”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam said in the same voice, his eyes shining with tears, and Dean’s body shivered so violently he was wondered how he didn’t break apart right then and there. It was _Sam_ , his stupid baby brother was right there, _alive_ , and Dean would have stumbled over to drag him into the fiercest hug until he couldn’t breathe.

He would have, if Castiel hadn’t suddenly gasped, “ _Dean_.”

Dean looked back to him, right as Cas’s eyes rolled back into his head and body seized up.

It was the only warning Dean had before Castiel began to have a seizure.


	25. Chapter 25

“Over here, over here,” Sam said breathlessly as they hauled Cas into a cave, directing Dean over to a makeshift bed of dirt, leaves and bough branches against a rocky wall. Dean didn’t take in much else of the cave except the sunken hole where a fire burned, directing Sam to lay Castiel on his side while he draped his injured wing down the length of his body.

The seizure had been short, but Castiel had fallen unconsciousness immediately afterward, and he was only getting worse too: his skin clammy to the touch, heart rate weak and erratic. He was going into shock from hypothermia, blood loss, his broken bones or all three, and the blood oozing from the bullet wound in his wing didn’t seem to want to stop, no matter how much pressure Dean put on it. It was taking every part of Dean not to start panicking — _Cas, don’t die, don’t fucking die,_ he wanted to yell, _Cas, you can’t die because of me_ — just managing to shove it all down as far as it would go and hoping the lid stayed on tight.

If he had a chance at saving Cas’s life, he _had_ to focus. Dean sucked in the deepest breath he could and, after letting it out, he did exactly that.

 _Stop bleeding, protect wounds, immobilize fractures, treat shock,_ he chanted to himself over and over to the tune of _Kashmir._ “We need to warm him up,” he told Sam quickly, who looked up him, saltwater dripping from his hair. “Get him out of his wet clothes. Get him dry, Sammy.”

“Right,” Sam said, grabbing a bowie knife that was strapped to his leg. He slid it into the slit of the trenchcoat for Castiel’s wings and then sliced it one fell swoop, doing the same to the other side. In less than a minute, he was able to peel the coat off, bundling it up and tossing it aside before going for the angel’s tattered trousers. While he did that, Dean looked over Cas's injuries, trying to assess everything that was wrong.

With the Castiel’s body already a canvas to every injury he had suffered, Dean didn’t think it could get any worse. But the world was out to prove him wrong: Besides his head injury and broken wing, Castiel’s side and back were flamed a bright red against his pale skin. While Sam covered Cas’s legs with a plastic tarp and some bough, Dean shifted so he could lean down and settle his ear against Castiel’s side. He listened intently as he pressed gently against skin and bone with his free hand, faintly hearing a crunching noise that made him curse several times under his breath.

That meant Castiel’s ribs were either cracked or broken — from Dick throwing him around or the fall off a cliff, Dean didn’t know. There was nothing he could do about it though — something like that needed x-rays and a _hospital —_ and he just had to hope that Castiel wasn’t bleeding internally or worse. (Knowing his luck, however…)

What he _could_ do was tend to Castiel’s wing, and he returned to studying it. He ran his hand along feathers, thin muscles and bones to get a feel how it worked, looking over the damage too. It seemed the bullet was a through and through, but it, and possibly the fall, had left only destruction in its wake: both bones in the wing broken, ripped apart tissue and, Dean was beginning to suspect, some damaged veins along the way. It still hadn’t stopped bleeding too, and Dean tried to guess how long it had been going at it. He had no idea on how long they had been in the water, though. Five minutes? he wondered. Ten? Longer?

He swallowed, feeling another rise of panic before he could stop it. (What if they had been in the water a lot longer? _Too_ long? What if he couldn't stop the bleeding? What if he could really do nothing for Castiel? What if—) But he slammed it down again, forcing himself to _focus:_ He had to stop the bleeding and get the bones splinted, and for that, he needed medical supplies… Or whatever he could use as medical supplies. Dean cursed at himself again for losing the kit, before he turned to Sam. “I need something that I can use as bandages. Anything you got, Sammy. Clean water too.”

Sam pushed his wet hair out of his face, eyes flickering from side-to-side in thought before he brightened. “Hang on,” he said, pushing to his feet and darting off around the bend of rocky wall. He returned quickly with old, frayed shirts in hand, along with a log that was carved out and filled with water. He set down the supplies in front of Dean, keeping one shirt in hand to dry Castiel off. Dean took another shirt, tearing it into pieces before pushing one to Castiel’s wound.

It seemed to take forever until the wound finally stopped bleeding but it, Dean breathing a sigh of relief before he started to clean and dress it. Splinting the wing was the next step, Sam helping support the limb while Dean slid the broken bones back into place. He used a few branches that Sam had collected as firewood for the splint, tying them to the wing with strips of cloth. Then it was time to build a sling, Sam giving over a dress shirt, which Dean recognized as one of the last things his brother had been seen wearing. They cupped the wing inside it, Sam tying the sleeves together at Castiel’s neck, while Dean used his belt to the secure it around his waist.

After that, he cleaned the wound on Cas’s head, dabbing away the blood there and placing a strip of cloth over it. Then, with Sam’s help, they lay Castiel back on the make-shift bed, his brother covering him up with what clothes he had left, before they both draped the rest of the plastic tarp over him. It was part of a hunting blind, Dean realized, as he helped Sam pile leaves, moss and spare bough on top of it. All the buildup would help keep Castiel warm, Sam stroking the fire back up as well.

The flames started to warm his chilled skin, Dean wiping his hands soaked in dirt, salt and blood onto his wet shirt. Sam settled beside him again, looking over Castiel before he murmured a question Dean didn’t want him to ask.

“Is... Is he going to be okay?”

Dean did his best not to visibly flinch or cringe, or get overwhelmed by another wave of panic. But that was a near thing: If Castiel hadn’t been half-starved, if he hadn’t been living on the island, if he hadn’t been shot, if he hadn’t hit his head, if he hadn't had a seizure, if he hadn’t slipped into unconsciousness, if any chance of proper medical care wasn’t hours away... Dean might have been able to answer that question. But all he knew was that Cas needed an actual _doctor_ in a _hospital_ , not care from a failed combat medic with MacGyver-style medical supplies. Without them...

Dean swallowed, feeling the world spin a little as he stared at Castiel. He couldn’t finish that thought (he really could _not_ ) and shoved it back down again, _Kashmir_ playing louder in his ears. It helped drown out thoughts of  _What if Cas never wakes up? What if he dies? —_ which was good, because he _really_ couldn't think about that either.

Instead of answering Sam’s question, he muttered, “You should get out of your wet clothes.”

Sam started, and then look down at himself. His clothes clung to his body, showing how thin he had become, all sinewy muscle and sunburnt skin. “Right, right,” he muttered, pushing to his feet again. “I should still have some clothes left. I’ll grab some for you too.”

With that, he walked off again, stripping off his shirt as he went. Dean heard him shuffling things around, and desperate for a distraction, he found himself looking around the cave, taking it all in. It had been the ghost’s cave, according to Cas, but as a place where a deadly predator once lurked, it wasn't what Dean had pictured. Now it was clearly a place where Sam _lived:_  supplies, weapons, tools and food stacked here and there. Dean was in a small pocket of the cave, off from the main area, clearly Sam’s sleeping area if the makeshift bed was any indication. The fire pit and wooden reflector Sam had built in the pocket trapped heat inside and kept the small area warm and toasty. Dean could feel the heat even sopping wet as he still was, which he was happy for. If he could feel the heat, then Castiel was staying warm under his makeshift blanket.

There was a shotgun tucked under the bough near Cas's head, Dean recognizing it as one of the demon’s. It wasn’t Sam’s only weapon in the cave — in the main area, where his brother had dug out a pit to place a fire in, Dean could make out a spear and stone axe. It seemed to be Sam’s cooking area, a large rock slab half over the fire, mushrooms on a stick placed onto of it, along with another log that was similar to the one Sam had given him that had been full of water. Next to it, Sam had set up A-frame posts, and from a bar in the middle hung the carcass of a seagull, blood dripping into a log placed underneath it. It wasn’t his only food either: the rocks were draped with seaweed, and there was a large pile of pinecones in another scrap of plastic tarp.

It looked like Sam was working on several bait traps too, the main one a wickerwork trap, meant for catching fish. They were set near the two entrances of the cave, where there were also two massive pile of logs stacked at each one. Dean frowned at that, wondering what the stacks were for: if they were for firewood, why were there two of them?

It was a question for another time, Dean’s eyes then drawn to the third entrance in the cave. Unlike the other cave entrances — one which led out to the ocean; the other to forest (or Dean guessed anyway) — the path sloped downward and disappeared into darkness. Where it went, Dean couldn't even guess.

That mystery aside, Dean had to marvel at Sam’s setup. They both had had extensive survival training since they were kids, but it seemed Sam had learned a lot more than Dean ever remembered. He had food, weapons, shelter, supplies... and that made Dean smile a little. That was his baby brother, wasn’t it? If anyone could have survived this island, it was Sam.

He turned back when Sam returned and, despite being underweight, his brother looked remarkably healthy. He didn’t seem to have any wounds or scars from what Dean could tell either, just red, blistery sunburned skin on his necks and shoulders. In his loose shirt and the military fatigues he had put on, Dean was reminded of a teenage Sam, all long limbs and still growing into his height... Sans the ponytail and thick beard he was now sporting though.

Sam was smiling too, and Dean almost couldn’t tear his eyes from it. “Here, these should fit you,” his brother said, and Dean looked down at a folded up jacket and pair of pants, boots resting on top of the pile. But his eyes were back on Sam when he let out a weak laugh and grinned. “Ignore the holes. And the blood stains.”

Dean had once thought he would never Sam see smile and laughing again, and he couldn’t stop the way his throat filled up or his eyes from pricking with tears. God, he had _forgotten_ what his smile and laugh looked and sounded like; forgotten how it always made Sam look so young and carefree. He couldn’t look away, drinking it in, a happy mantra of _Sammy_ filling up his thoughts.

He barely managed to choke back tears, only to frown when Sam’s grin slowly faded. His expression grew worried as he glanced over Dean twice. “Do you… need help?” he asked.

Dean grew confused, while Sam made the tiniest gesture toward his hands. When Dean looked at them, he saw that they were shaking, _badly._ But it wasn’t just his hands: He realized his entire body was trembling, his teeth chattering too. _Right, I jumped off a cliff into freezing water,_ he thought idly, but surprisingly, he was less alarmed by that reminder than he probably should have been. He felt like he was full of vampire venom again: disconnected from his body; disconnected from everything that had just happened to him. The world spun a little again, as he swallowed and thought, _That can’t be good._

But maybe it was better than the alternative, Dean feeling the slow build of panic bubble up again. And with it came the memory of sharp teeth and the rattling hiss, and the sight of Cas’s eyes right before he fell off the cliff...

 _Nope,_ he thought as he slammed that feeling back down and forced himself to focus again. No matter how much he couldn’t feel his body, he too needed to get out of his wet clothes and warm up. Except his hands were useless when he tried to remove his clothing, the ache of his ribs and pain in his arm coming back full force the moment he tried. He hissed in pain, and that made Sam shuffle over, Dean growing embarrassed when his brother had to help peel off various layers. His wet jeans were almost impossible to get out of, his knee so swollen that Dean had to bite back a cry when Sam finally had to yank them off. Putting on clothes was just as hard too, though the state of them made Dean lift an eyebrow when he looked at jacket and noticed the three long gashes in the back of it. Sam certainly wasn’t kidding about the holes…

“Where did you get these?” he asked, and Sam let out another weak laugh.

“A lot of it was already here actually, but I’ve scavenged some too. They’re clean, I swear.”

Dean decided he didn’t want to know, going for the pants first and ignoring the series of holes in one leg that were too similar to bite marks. While he was tugged them on, leaning back a little to get them up his hips, he looked over when Sam let out a hiss. His brother’s eyes traveled from his knee to the bullet graze on his arm (still bleeding, Dean realized) to the dark violet bruises on his chest and side. There was also his bandaged wrists and neck, both sipping wet. “Dean,” he whispered, shaking his head, eyes growing large. “Dean, you look awful _.”_

Dean _hated_ the look of worry in Sam’s eyes, quickly covering himself up. “M-Me?” he cracked, as he tugged on the jacket, zipping it up. It was a size too big on him and the sleeves fell past his wrists; Dean rolled up the cuffs while he forced a grin for his brother. “Y-You look like Sasquatch, Sammy. Look at your goddamn beard.”

That made Sam glance up at him, and then, to Dean’s alarm, tears filled his eyes. He reached out, his hand hovering over Dean’s shoulder, as if he was afraid to touch him. “Dean?” he croaked, shaking his head again. “It really is you, isn’t it? This isn’t some weird dream I’m having?”

Dean’s heart leapt at that, the “no, Sammy,” barely out of his mouth when his brother clamped onto him, a whimper leaving his mouth. Dean’s gasp got caught in his throat, his arms around Sam too before he realized it. Everything else faded: the sounds of the fire popping and crackling, the howl of the wind and ocean from outside, his own pounding heart in his ears. It was nothing but _Samuel, Sam, Sammy,_ his baby brother, _alive_ , and Dean clung to him, squeezing his eyes shut.

Since the moment he found out that Sam could still be alive, Dean hadn’t let himself think about this — finding Sam and holding him again — afraid to hope too much even then. But now, after six months of agony, anguish, mourning and witnessing the horrors of this island, Dean sank into the embrace, let himself take comfort in it. Sam was alive, _Sammy was_ _alive_ , and he never wanted to let go of his brother ever again.

But Sam pulled away far too soon, hands trembling as he grasped Dean’s shoulders tightly. “Dean, _Dean_ , I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re _here_. What are you doing here?” he babbled, and that was the moment Dean’s world shattered again. Sam didn’t give him a chance to respond, his eyes flicking over to Castiel and back. “I heard the gunshots. I saw the angel get shot and fall, and you jumping after him. Dean, you _jumped_ off a cliff. I saw you jump off a _cliff_.”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered. Sam frowned questioningly. “T-The monster, he was coming after us. He was… He was hunting us.”

Sam’s face fell, horror filling his eyes. “Roman?” he repeated, his grip tightening on Dean, sending waves of pain through his injured arm. “Dean, did he abduct you too? Jess? Joan? Mary? Are they here on the island? Did he bring them here?!”

 _“Usually threatening to kill a man’s wife and children if he doesn't back off is enough for him to stop, not assume it’s a bluff,”_ the monster said in the back of Dean’s mind, and it made him shiver violently and remember sharp teeth again.

“N-No,” he whispered, as all he could manage were whispers now. He was shaking again, he realized. “T-They’re in California.”

“California?” Sam murmured, his eyes flickering back and forth in confusion before he looked at Dean. Slowly, his face went from confused to cold, and Dean tensed at the look. “Dean,” his brother said stiffly then, eyes narrowing. “Dean, what are you doing here?”

 _I came here to avenge you,_ Dean couldn’t say, but that was only one of many things he couldn’t say. _I couldn’t watch Jess cry anymore,_ was one, and, _I couldn’t listen to the twins ask where you were anymore,_ was another. But the real reason — that Sam had disappeared and it had nearly killed him — he could never say to Sam, though knowing his brother, he already knew. And he did, despair filled Sam’s eyes as he began to shake his head again, Dean cringing.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he whispered, even though it wasn’t. It would never be okay, and Dean cringed again when he saw the despair in Sam’s eyes disappear. Dean braced himself for the pain that was going to hurt worse than anything on this island.

“ _Goddamnit_ , Dean!” Sam yelled as he surged to his feet, dragging his hands through his hair. He took several steps away, and then whirled back to Dean, shoulders heaving as he jerked a finger at him. “You’re not supposed to be _here_! You’re not supposed to be on this island! You weren’t supposed to find to out about this place either! You promised!”

If it had been the day before, Dean would have protested that, would have yelled right back.  _Don’t give me that bullshit, Sammy. You left us with no clue about what happened to you, and you wouldn’t let me find out. You shouldn't have done this alone! You should have told me you were in trouble!_

He would have let his anger out, his selfishness too. _If I had known, I would have never made that promise! You should have never made me make that promise!_

But now, after everything, he could only agree. “I know, Sammy,” he whispered as he glanced at Castiel, but there was no comfort to be found looking at him. All he could see was Castiel helpless, hopeless look as the monster had strode toward them, jaws wide.

 _I want to live for you,_ Castiel had told him, and now here he was, dying…

“Then why are you here?!” Sam cried, and Dean flinched, watching his brother drag his hands through his hair again. “Dean, I made you promise not to, and I left you every sign that I did not want you to, either! You had to know the danger! You had to know I would have never asked you something like that unless it was important! You know that, Dean!”

Dean felt his heart clench again — he had been too caught up in his own pain and grief to see the danger Sam was warning him about, hadn’t he? He struggled to his feet, desperately wanting to comfort his brother, the warring grief and anger on Sam’s face causing Dean pain too. “S-Sammy, I didn’t know he threatened Jess and the kids. I didn’t know _anything_. The police, they couldn’t tell us anything, if you were dead or not—”

“I was _supposed_ to die!” Sam snapped back hoarsely, fists clenching at his sides. “I figured out what Roman was doing! I was going to expose him! Do you think Roman was happy that I was going to do that?! Do you think he took it lightly?!”

Sam’s nostril's flared, his shaking fists just a hint of how much anger he was holding back. “Roman threatened to kill all of you unless I gave myself and my research up. And that meant you couldn’t investigate either, which is why I destroyed my notes; hid my trail so you would know not to follow it! I made you promise not to look either, Dean. I made you promise to look out for our family! You _promised_ , Dean!”

“I didn’t know!” Dean yelled back, which made Sam start shaking his head again. Dean cringed, but he _needed_ his brother to see where he was coming from. “You don’t understand, Sam. The police! They found evidence that made it look like you ran away. They stopped searching for you. They thought you were a criminal, or that you were hiding something! They—"

He stopped himself then, wondering if he should reveal the rest: That they made Jess think Sam abandoned her and the girls... And how Dean had basically confirmed that for her when he had told her of Sam's promise. But he was also running out of time: Sam’s face was starting to contort in anger again, shoulders rising in a way that meant he was restraining himself from hitting Dean. “That’s why I came here!” Dean blurted out quickly, without really thinking. “I figured out what the monster was doing, and I came here to kill him! That way, the whole world would have found out what he was doing, and Jess and the twins would have known you died a hero!”

Sam seemed to pause at that, his eyes narrowing again, jaw tightening. Then he took a deep breath, and ground out, “If you were going to kill Roman, then what are you doing _here_ , Dean?”

“He caught me,” Dean admitted, and then cringed when Sam threw his arms in the air, turning away again. “But I escaped! One of the demons, they told me what happens here, and I knew, I-I knew if they put you on this island, that you were alive, that you would have survived! I knew I had to find you, I had to—”

 _Save you._ The words caught in his throat and there was no way Dean could say them. Sam heard them though; Dean saw it flash in his eyes, and his brother's face went carefully blank. Dean tensed, knowing whatever Sam said next, it was going to fucking _hurt._

He did not disappoint.

“Well, congratulations, _Dean,_ ” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Instead of saving me, you got my family _killed_ instead.”

There wasn’t enough mental armor in the world for that, and the world spun again.  _No, no, no_ , Dean thought, but then he had to imagine it _,_ and it alone would give him nightmares for life. ( _The twins nothing more than skeletons; Dick’s jaws swinging open before he launched forward to devour Jess as she screamed.)_

“Sammy, Sammy, no,” he pleaded, reaching for his brother, but Sam moved out of the way. “I’ve only been here two days. Jess, the girls, they’re in California with your in-laws, there's no way he's gotten to them yet. I shot him too! I shot Dick in the shoulder — he has to be badly injured! And Bobby’s coming! Tonight! He’ll get us off this island! We’ll get off, and we’ll stop him. He’ll never get to Jess and the twins. Sammy, you have to _believe_ me—”

His words didn’t seem to get through to his brother — and finally made him snap. Dean paused when Sam whirled around on him, eyes livid and teeth bared. That was the only warning Dean had; he was on the ground the next moment, ribs seizing up in pain as he wheezed out a gasp.

“You got my family killed, Dean!” Sam screamed at him before he stormed off, disappearing down the pathway that led into darkness. Dean, meanwhile, couldn’t move, the pain in his jaw and ribs the only thing keeping him from losing it completely as Sam’s words repeated themselves over and over in his head.

 _You got your family killed,_ Dean _._

It had friends, too.

 _You got Cas killed,_ Dean _._

 _You got everyone on this island killed,_ Dean _._

“No,” he whispered, tasting bile in his mouth. He could still save everyone. He could still get everyone off the island. He could still get everyone home. He _had_ to — for the love of everything holy, he _had_ to.

He staggered to his feet, knee giving out on him twice before he finally made it. He moved over to where Sam had gone, but at the entrance of the inner cave, he paused. It was pitch black down the pathway, Dean unable to see a thing. His skin prickled when he felt the cold air drifting up from inside.

“Sam?” he called weakly, but was answered only by his echo. Dean frowned, wondering where he could have gone, but there was only one way to find out.

He backtracked to grab a stick from the fire for a makeshift torch and, after a worried glance at Castiel, he descended into darkness.


	26. Chapter 26

The pathway that led deeper into the ghost’s cavern was rough, Dean wincing as his feet slipped along the jagged rocks, sparks of pain shooting up his leg to his knee. The torch in his hand only lit up a few feet ahead of him, flame flickering as it grew colder and colder the deeper he went. There was a lingering musty scent in the air, at first faint compared to the smell of sea water and burning wood. It became stronger the further he went however, only to dissipate when the passageway opened up at a fork.

Down one pathway, Dean could hear trickling water, the flame wavering in air that tasted of salt. It sloped upwards to depths unknown, but showed no signs of Sam. Dean pulled back, and then peered down the second tunnel. That was when his breath hitched, when the light caught on the rocky wall.

There were words written on it.

 _My name is Samuel Winchester,_ the wall read in thick, bold white letters. The markings were chalky, probably from limestone. _I was born on May 2, 1983, to John and Mary Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas._ _I was abducted on May 4, 2014 by Richard Roman, the CEO of Richard Roman Enterprises._

Dean felt his throat start to ache, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. _If you find this, tell me wife, Jessica Moore-Winchester and my children that I love them. And to my brother, Dean_ —

Dean jerked the light away, the words disappearing back into darkness. This was Sam’s goodbye letter, his _death_ note, and there was no way Dean could read the words his brother had left for him. He looked back at the rest of the letter, wondering when Sam had written this. When he first found this cave? A month later? Two? And what if this had been the only thing he found of Sam?

That was something Dean could really think about, his stomach lurching just at the thought. He turned away, and then frowned when his foot hit something, whatever it was clunking along the rocks before it rolled into the light. He looked down at it, only to jerk back when he saw a skull at his feet. His heart started to pound, and he cursed. _What the hell?_

It was a werewolf’s, judging by the shape of snout and canines. But the bones laid out near it were not, Dean moving the light over the remains when he noticed them. It was most of a torso, with the ribs low on the body, bones oddly thin. As he drew the light down, he could see that they were hollow, too; while he didn’t know much past human and werewolf anatomy, there was only one species that could have bones like that.

They were the remains of an angel, long picked clean, and Dean had to quickly swallow down the bile that shot up his throat.

 _Don’t think of Cas, don’t think of Cas,_ he pleaded to himself as he turned away; when he did, he noticed that the passageway began to open up into a dark cavern. The werewolf and angel’s remains were not the only ones either, a trail of faded and discolored bones in all shapes and sizes guiding his way in.

It was cold in the cavern, his breath visible and the musty smell he had caught earlier far stronger. The bones continued on, but then the light revealed the mummified body of a werewolf, its ragged clothes still hanging off leather skin. It wasn’t the only mummified body either: next to it were a couple of vampires and a single angel, its wings plastered along the walls, feathers dull and withered. Dean couldn’t look at it long, eyes drawn to a flicker of shadows above him, and he lifted his torch up. There was skeleton hanging from the cave ceiling too, its wrists bound by long ropes and bones a dusty brown. Next to it were several more ropes, the boneS of an arm still tied to one, a mummified vampire on another rope.

 _What...?_ Dean thought again, torn between horror and disgust and a growing terror. What the hell was this place?

As he turned again, the light fell on Sam standing in the center of the cavern. Dean nearly jumped out his skin at the sight of him, swearing again.

“The hell, Sam?!” he snapped without thinking, but his heart slowed as he took in the sight of his brother. He was just standing there in the middle of the cavern, the light revealing the slump in his shoulders, the lines and dark circles under and around his eyes. His cheeks were stained with tears — a sight that made Dean cringe — his eyes moving along the line of corpses illuminated by the torch.

“Is this all we are, Dean?” he whispered, and Dean frowned. In the light, Sam’s skin looked yellow, his cheekbones sunken in and eyes dark. “Everything we work for, everything we fight for… Is this all we are in the end?”

He gestured toward the corpses, Dean feeling a chill go down his spine as he glanced around as well. Those words were hauntingly familiar, though he couldn’t quite place where he had heard them before. They unnerved him though, but a lot of things were bothering him at the moment: the main one being Sam standing in the dark in a cavern full of dead bodies. ( _Of dead angels_ , his mind traitorously reminded him, Dean shoving the thought away.)

“Um, no?” he answered Sam, and his brother huffed softly, reaching up to push hair out of his eyes. "Sam. W-What… What is this place?”

Sam didn’t reply right away, Dean not sure he had even heard him. “This cave used to belong to a wendigo,” he finally murmured, and at that name, Dean’s mouth dropped. “This is where it kept its food.”

Dean sucked in a breath. A _wendigo?_

Suddenly, it all made sense. Castiel had described the ghost as lightning fast, capable of mimicking voices, and said it had lived in a cave. The ghost that terrorized everyone on the island, that had hunted and hurt Castiel, had been a _wendigo._ Dean had heard about the stories about them, how people had once hadn’t been able to go into the forest unless they accepted they might nit come back. (Most of those stories were from Grandpa Samuel, who had always been overly fond of telling them that right when they were going to bed.) But wendigos were extinct now, weren’t they? How in the hell had a wendigo ended up here on this island?

When Dean asked that without thinking, Sam glanced over at him again. “Look at the number of bones here, Dean. Look how old some of them are,” he muttered, waving a hand around the cave again. “The wendigo was here for years. For all we know, it probably was _always_ here. Coniferous forest are its natural habitat. But it’s dead now, like everything else.”

Dean frowned, confused. “How did you know it was dead?” he asked, and then he moved his torch to where Sam pointed to. Under the ropes, there was another body; like some of the other bodies, the wendigo was mummified. Its gray skin stretched over its bones and sunken eyes sockets, and its white fangs and sickle claws were bleached white. Unlike everything else however, its head was the opposite direction of its body, which Sam nodded to.

“I have no idea what killed it. Snapping necks isn’t really Roman’s thing, from what I’ve seen,” he muttered.

Dean knew however, and he looked around the cave again, horrified. “Cas killed it,” he whispered.

 _I can’t even remember how,_ the angel had told him, but Dean was quickly filling in the gaps. Castiel had been attacked in the forest, and had probably been dizzy and disoriented from blood loss and pain. But if the wendigo had died here, that meant it had dragged Castiel to the cave. (Because Castiel had known about this cave, he had said so himself.) Maybe the wendigo had lifted Castiel up to tie him to the ropes, which was when Cas had found his strength and used his legs to grasp the wendigo’s head, snapping its neck in one swift movement.

But the horrors hadn’t ended there, had they? Dean thought. _I was so weak afterward,_ Castel had said. How long had he laid here in the dark, the pain of his injuries making it too difficult to move? When he had finally been able to move, had the first thing he felt was his bloody fingers slipping over bones and leathery flesh? Had he felt the remains of his brethrens’ wings and known what they were? _I thought I was going to die._

“Cas?”

Dean jerked in surprise and then looked back at his brother, Sam frowning in confusion. Realizing why, Dean hesitated before he clarified. “Castiel.”

Even in the dark, he saw Sam’s eyes go wide. He knew that name as well as Dean did — after all, Castiel had saved them _both_ once. But where that name had meant everything to Dean over the years, he realized he had never asked his brother what that had been like for him, how he had felt about it. And it was disheartening to watch as the surprise on Sam’s face faded away, before he muttered glumly, “I wondered if that was him.”

That was all he said, but Dean wanted to know more. _Why didn’t you find out?_ he almost asked. _Why didn’t you go to him? You two could have worked together. Maybe Cas wouldn’t have been so alone then..._

But that died as Sam frowned again, nose wrinkling in distaste. “What was he even _doing_ with you? I’ve seen him. He avoids conflict, and he sure as hell avoids Roman.”

Dean winced, having to push back memories of a black gaping maw full of _teeth_. But he couldn’t push back the wave of guilt that came too, and it made his throat start to close up. “H-He was helping me find you,” he managed, glancing away again. “He saved my neck a couple times. Watched my back.”

“Why?” Sam asked, and Dean swallowed painfully.

“I… don’t know,” he whispered. _He took on a werewolf, vampires, demons, the monster, for me,_ he couldn’t say _. The son of a bitch wanted to live for me. I don’t even know what that means, Sammy. What does that even mean?_

Sam huffed out a laugh then. “Well,” he muttered listlessly, Dean glancing back and watching as Sam reached up to massage his temples. “I hope you kept your fetish to yourself.”

That was a twist of the knife already in his heart, and Dean winced — he hadn’t, had he? And what should have been playful teasing from Sam was anything but. That had always been their thing, too, Dean’s stupid fetish: part of their inside jokes; Sam’s form of blackmail when he was a teenager; the way Sam had introduced him to Jess. (That was how Dean knew she was the one for his brother, if Sam was willing to open with that.)

But he and Sam were never going to laugh about that again, were they? Hell, he and Sam were never going to laugh, period, unless he got his brother home back to his family.

If they were even _alive_ …

Tears pricked Dean’s eyes then, and he took a step toward his brother. “Sammy,” he croaked, wanting so badly to touch him. But as cool as Sam was at the moment, touching him was in the ‘don’t-push-your-luck-Dean’ category. “B-Bobby’s coming. Tonight. Right after the sun goes down, at the bay on the southwest side of the island. He’s going to bring a boat around, and get us back _home_ —”

Sam interrupted him with another huff. “Why is Bobby coming anyway?" he asked listlessly. "If you were going to kill Roman, why involve Bobby?”

“He wanted me to have another backup plan,” Dean admitted. It was weird to think that he and Bobby had only hashed that out less than two days ago, the old man _insistent_ that Dean had an extraction plan in case things went belly up. It was the only way Dean could get him to agree to _his_ plan: Sneak onto an island to find irrefutable evidence of what Dick Roman was doing, and kill him if he had the chance. “H-He said if he didn’t hear from me in some way in twenty-four hours, he was coming in three days to pick me up.”

Sam nodded slowly, and then his shoulders lifted with another huff. He looked away, back at the corpses. “I guess that means he’s dead then.”

Dean went cold, almost dropping his torch. “What?” he whispered, heart starting to pound.

“Bobby’s dead,” Sam repeated, turning away and walking toward one of the walls. Dean noticed a bunch of bough on the ground, arranged like Sam’s bed up in the main area of the cave, and warning bells in Dean’s head went off when his brother slumped down on it. The light from the torch created odd shadows on his brother’s face, making his thin cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes that more prominent. His face looked more and more skull-like, Dean thought and then shivered.

“If he’s coming with a boat, then he would need to rent one, right?” Sam explained, and by his tone alone, Dean already knew he wasn’t going to like where this went. “He’d come from the town right? Small town like that notices strangers, and they’re definitely going to notice someone who wants to take a boat out outside tourist season. One of Roman’s daemons just has to ask around to get the answers they want. They’d tell them where Bobby was in a heartbeat.”

Sam had always been good at the whole connect-the-dots thing, and Dean already knew Dick had sent daemons to town to look for Bobby. But he had to protest, shaking his head. “Why would they tell them? They’re _demons,_ Sam.”

His brother scoffed, eyes narrowing as he looked up at Dean. “This isn’t like when we were kids, Dean. Besides, out here, no one cares what species you are. And some of the daemons have been here for _years_ — the folks there know them, _trust_ them, are loyal to them. Not some strange human they don’t know.”

Dean felt his stomach drop, knowing Sam was right. The townsfolk of Okhotnik hadn’t been very welcoming, continuously mentioning that he and Bobby didn’t look much like fishermen in that ‘you’re-not-welcome’ voice. “So we missed those world-famous Chinook salmon?” Dean had joked with the waitress at a diner, and Bobby had flashed him a _shut your trap, idjit_. After that frosty encounter, Bobby muttered something about bribing people and dragged Dean back to the motel to count their cash.

Had the townspeople betrayed them then? 

After the “ _you killed my family”_ from Sam, knowing he had maybe gotten Bobby killed too was just kicking a man when he was already down. Dean could feel himself sinking fast though, and he desperately clung to whatever he had left. “Then l-let’s take the fight to the monster,” he blurted out, Sam snorting softly and rolling his eyes. “I-I shot him, Sam. With a frickin’ Winchester rifle, right in the shoulder. I don’t care what species he is, a shoulder wound causes _serious_ damage—”

“So you know he isn’t human?” Sam interrupted again. Dean’s mouth clicked shut. “Did the angel tell you?”

Dean frowned, but he nodded. If Sam knew, maybe he knew what he was too. “Cas called him a leviathan,” he murmured, again forcing back the flashes of Castiel snatched up mid-attack; the way Divk's jaws had swung open, revealing rows and rows of _teeth._ “I-I saw it. How his face… changed. What… What is he?”

He didn’t like the way Sam’s lips lifted up in a smirk. “An angel _would_ know its only true predator,” he muttered, Dean tensing. “Angels and leviathan are related. As the stories go, one evolved to become the perfect predator; the other evolved wings to escape it.”

Dean frowned — he knew a crap load about angels, but he had never heard of their _only true predator._ But angel lore _was_ incredibly hard to find, and wasn't the easiest to read (Enochian to English just did not translate well at times); it could also be very poetic. Maybe Dean had read something about leviathans and just never realized it was _literal_.

“Leviathans were apex predators,” Sam went on. “Ate anything and everything, including each other. They were the dominant species on the planet for millions of years… until we came along, of course.”

At that, Dean started, blinking. “Seriously?” he interrupted, Sam glancing at him. “That old story? Humans came into a picture, killed them all off? In that case:  _good_.”

“No, we forced them to _change_ so they’d survive, like we do with every species,” Sam said, disgust in his voice and sneer on his lips. “But we change too much: we have lycanthropes completely dependent on their shots; vampires had to conform or _die_ ; we enslaved daemons in everything but name; we have angels whose entire culture became militaristic. And leviathan, they managed to evolve to look exactly like us so they blended in and wouldn't get killed off, but they couldn’t get rid of their instinct to _hunt_.”

Dean felt himself growing irritated. He had always got the argument, he had; resenting the new boss and all. Hell, humans did have a habit of wiping out _everything_ that they didn’t like, so the hate was warranted. But, and while it wasn’t perfect, they were learning to coexist: angels and humans had been allies for thousands of years; werewolves _liked_ their shots; it was still relatively new, but humans and vampires had made their peace. And, well, even though Dean personally thought they should all croak and die, after the Azazel Uprisings, demons and humans were more-or-less getting along too. That had to count for something, right? (And it was weird to think that just yesterday, he had listened to Castiel describe humans as special; praised them for their ability _to_ change things…)

And anyway, what did that even matter? “I don’t get what you’re going for here, Sammy,” Dean growled in frustration. The torch popped and crackled in his hands when he moved it absentmindedly. “We fucked over every other species, yeah yeah, I’ve heard it a million times. What does that have to do with leviathans? With Dick?”

“ _Everything_ , Dean,” Sam snapped, looking up at him again. “Roman’s a predator. He needs to _hunt_. But when you don’t need to hunt for food because there's always plenty around, it’s not exactly the same, is it? It’s about the challenge, the thrill of it. Which becomes a problem when you’re millions of years more evolved than any other species: there isn’t much that offers a challenge.”

Dean frowned. He had already suspected that Dick hunted those who could survive the island, but it seemed Sam was suggesting something else entirely...

“You can only go on so many big-game safaris before you run out of animals to hunt, none of which provide any sort of challenge anyway,” his brother went on, his eyes flicking over to the cavern. “But there are the ones in the middle: smart, strong enough to present a challenge, but their natural instincts are diminishing the more and more they’re influenced by humans. So what do you do when your predator and you can’t find anything to hunt?”

“Deal with it,” Dean spat without really thinking, but spontaneous as it was, it was true. Sam snorted, glancing at him with a look that Dean didn’t like. Like he was _naive_ for thinking that.

“Or you get rid of your prey’s humanity,” he murmured darkly, and at that, Dean stiffened. He had heard that before.

It seemed so long ago when he had stood in front of the vampires, the matriarch spilling out those same words: _“Once you strip that away — our titles, our social statuses, our education, our hopes, our dreams, our_ humanity _— we’re all just animals underneath.”_

Dean felt a chill go down his spine, and then glanced back when Sam started to laugh. “A-And you know what?” he croaked out, as he looked up at Dean and began to shaking his head. There was a wild look in his eyes, a mix of horror and disgust and maybe even a little panic. “He _does_ it. He does it _so easily_ too. He even has goddamn _procedure manuals_ for it. In less than a month, Roman can destroy thousands of years of lycanthrope domestication; turn vampirs into _cannibals_. And _angels_? Years and years and _years_ of training to be living weapons, only for them to end up as  _wendigo food_.”

Flinching, Dean tried not to look at the angel corpses scattered around the cavern. Tried, and failed. He glanced back as Sam let out another strained laugh, his own gaze traveling over the bones and mummified corpses surrounding them.

“And that’s _before_ they even release them onto this island,” he went on, shaking his head again. “And once they’re out here, it’s just full-on dog-eat-dog world here. If they’re not hunting each other, they’re _cannibalizing_ each other. And Roman likes to throw in little surprises to weed out them down even further, like with the wendigo here, or the djinn, with their poisonous skin. And then he comes in for whatever’s left, the strongest and most vicious, and hunts them all down.”

Dean swallowed. He remembered Dick showing him his trophy collection — the “best specimens,” as he had called them. _“It's why I invested in the facility here, to create the best,”_ the monster had said, and at the time Dean had wondered what that meant. They literally did that then? But how? Torture, isolation…?

“You know how he does it, too?” Sam asked, as if he was reading his mind. Hell, maybe he was: Sam had always been good at reading him. “He gives them a taste of what he always feels: Hunger. Once that sets in… it’s all you can think about. Nothing else matters. And when you see it in their eyes, that’s when you get it.”

Sam looked at him, eyes wide, and Dean saw _it._

“You’re just _meat_ ,” his brother whispered.

Time might as well have stopped for how that hit Dean, leaving him dumbstruck and staring at his brother. He had heard that from Dick, from the vampires; seen it in the werewolf, in Castiel... But coming from Sam, it was something else entirely.

Sam, who had always wanted to help people, who had dedicated his life to that cause, who always saw the best in people in ways Dean never could… He couldn’t think _that_ , too.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispered.

Sam barked out another weak laugh, face torn between a grin and a grimace. “How can I _not_ , Dean? Look _around_ you.” Dean adamantly refused to, while his brother went on. “And do you have any idea what it’s like to _live_ here? To see what everyone _becomes_?”

Dean swallowed. He could see the werewolf again, the vampires, even Cas — their eyes empty and emotionless and bottomless pits that would swallow him whole. And now he was looking at his brother and seeing the same thing.

“No,” he whispered again. Not Sam too.

“And you know the worst part?” his brother asked then, a sharp, hysterical edge to his voice. His eyes were wet in the firelight, and it hurt Dean to see it. “What he does just to make his _point?_ He sends out humans like lambs to the slaughter for his… his _animals_. He wants them to destroy their humanity completely by killing those who gave it to them in the first place!”

Dean had already known that. _How poetic of Dick,_ he had thought at the time, _To feed humans to their former predators._ And he couldn’t help but remember how much that had upset Castiel, how much that had hurt him.

 _“I would have killed a human,”_  Cas had whispered to him, his eyes wet. Dean remembered Castiel's blade at his throat when they had first met, how empty his eyes were, how _dead_ they were. _"I would have killed_ you _.”_

“And if that happens to my family,” Sam croaked out, and Dean looked back at him at that. His brother was quickly falling apart, teeth gritting as tears started to fall. “If that happens to them _too_ …”

Again, that thought was _too much_ — and in a room full of corpses, it was made all that much worse — and with Sam grabbing at his hair as he broke down into sobs, Dean couldn’t stand it. He went to his brother, ignoring the stab of pain in his knee to bend down to him, desperate to reassure him, to make things _right_. “No, _no_ , Sammy,” he murmured, grasping his shoulder; Sam didn’t shake him off, his body trembling under Dean’s hand. “That won’t happen. I _won’t_ let that happen. I’ll fix this, Sammy. I’m going to fix _this_.”

But how he would, he didn’t know… And Sam knew it too. And that pissed his brother off again, Sam jerking away from him and dropping his hands from his hair. Through his tears, Sam glared at him, baring his teeth at him. “Are you going to try to _save them_ too?” he spit out sarcastically, before his eyes narrowed and he snarled, “You can’t save _anyone,_ Dean.”

Dean’s heart stopped.

It was like Sam had punched him again. But despite his brother yelling at him that he had killed their family, or saying they were all _meat_ … That was what made Dean freeze, and look around at all the eyes of the dead all staring at him.

He had told the werewolf he could save her, and she was dead.

He had told the vampires he could save them, but if Bobby was dead, there was no boat.

He had told Castiel he could save him, but without proper medical attention, he would die...

He had wanted to save Sam to bring him back to his family … But he might gotten killed his family instead.

And maybe he should have realized the truth long before he set foot on the island. Maybe he should have realized it when he had stood in the monster’s office and seen his trophy collection, with all those dead eyes staring at him too.

 _I can’t save anyone,_ Dean thought.

It was a thought that was like a bottomless pit that could and would swallow him whole. And Dean felt himself slipping fast.

He swallowed painfully, and then glanced back when Sam let out another shuddering sob. “Go, Dean,” he muttered, curling his legs to his chest and looking away. His shoulders shook, and he covered his eyes with his hand. “Just go.”

Head reeling and heart pounding again, Dean stumbled back, leaving his brother in darkness. And maybe any other time he would have never left his brother in a cavern full of the dead, but it was hard to think clearly when his entire world was kind of falling apart. But when he came back up the path, the torchlight caught Sam's words on the wall again, and Dean paused when he spotted them.

 _But it’s not,_ he thought as he read the message Sam had written just for him, his heart breaking again.

 _It’s okay, Dean_ , it said.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback in this chapter takes place right after the events of Chapter 22.

* * *

**The Night Before**

* * *

_Now what?_

That was a question Dean had never really been good at answering, despite the number of times he had to ask himself it. Once he was set on a path, he tended not to veer off it… and when it ended, he often didn’t know what to do with himself. And it didn’t help that he had never had _dreams_ for himself either — unless ensuring Sam got to achieve _his_ dreams counted. Instead, Dean had stuck to what he had always good at: shooting things and patching people up. And he could honestly say he had been happy with that; he had seen far worse lives, and he was grateful for what he had.

But things like a partner, a family of his own, a _future_ … he wanted all that, he _did_ , but he had never seen himself getting it.

Yet with arms full of angel — both of them curled next to the fire and under the medical kit’s emergency blanket while the rain poured outside the cave — Dean found himself thinking over that question again. And he didn’t know _what_ to think about it, just like he didn’t what to think about Castiel wanting to live for him. (What did that mean, anyway? Like, was it literal? Was it metaphorical? Dean was afraid to ask.) He also hadn’t known what to do when Castiel had settled against him too, Dean swallowing nervously as Cas tucked his face into his neck, and draped his wing over their bodies. Dean had almost made a crack about personal space, but the words got stuck in his throat when Castiel wrapped his arms around him, letting out a content hum into his skin.

So Dean said and did nothing, instead stroking Castiel’s back, which made his wings quiver, feathers rippling along Dean’s side. And while holding Castiel was still a mixture of confusing, terrifying and really fucking _nice_ , it was also what made Dean start thinking about that  _what now?_ question in the first place. And it made him realize he had never thought about… well, _afterward_.

Then again, he was never supposed to _have_ an afterward, was he? Dean had come to the island to kill Dick, and he had left his life behind to do it; he would have either died or gone to prison for the rest of his life, both outcomes he would have been happy with. There was no need for an afterward — and he hadn’t wanted one either. He had just wanted it to _end_ , one way or another, as long as Dick went down for what he had done to Sam, and that Jess knew her husband hadn’t left her willingly.

But now they were getting off this island and going home; Dick would go down, and Sam would be declared a hero. His brother and Castiel would be reunited with their families, and that was still all Dean wanted. But when that all died down, _after_ all that… Then what? What then?

_Now what?_

Unfortunately, all the times he had to ask himself that before there had always someone there to provide an answer. It hadn’t always been a _good_ answer — like after the war, where their dad clearly hadn’t thought about what he was going to do, and they had spent the next five years basically living out of the Impala. There had also been when Dean had turned eighteen too, Bobby the one who convinced him that it would be okay to leave Sam behind, and go into the military. And that had been good: Dean had flourished there, both as a soldier and as a medic, and he knew he could have stuck with it for the rest of his life.

But when Sam was considering a career change and leaving the law firm he worked for, and Jess, just starting her medical residency, had become pregnant, Dean’s entire life changed again. Two young adults, both without really steady jobs yet and with twins on the way were going to need some help, and it was an easy decision for him to make. (It had been perfect timing too, as he was just finishing up his enlistment.) And, despite the teasing he had gotten from his fellow soldiers that he should get his own TV show called “Army Nanny,” he had liked being there for his brother’s kids. And it had been Jess who had convinced him to try going for his nursing degree too. 

“There really aren't enough hot male nurses,” she had teased him at the time, which made Dean grin and Sam gag from behind her back.

But that begged the question now that they were going home: Now what? It wasn’t like he could go back to his life before: With his fucked-up knee, he’d be useless in the reserves — if they didn’t court martial him for disappearing anyway. And what about school? How far behind was he now?

And if Sam’s disappearance had proved anything, it was that his family didn’t need him... He wasn’t even sure they would want him back.

And there was this thing with Cas, whatever it was…

The guilt hit him then, and Dean cursed at himself for even thinking about it. Who cared about what he did afterward? Getting Sammy and Cas home was all that mattered. The most Dean was going to allow himself was some much-needed downtime with the biggest bottle of whiskey he could find, and he was just going to have to hope all nightmares he had wouldn’t always be of this godforsaken place. That was all he deserved really, after letting this happen in the first place—

Castiel sighed then, and shifted his body and wing against him, effectively distracting Dean a lot. And that question came back again, and with it, the briefest of fantasies... before he cursed himself again. (As if Cas would want _that._ )

In the end, it was just easier not to think about anything, so that was exactly what Dean did. And though it didn’t seem wise, he found himself pressing his face into Cas’s hair and taking in a deep breath, hoping it’d ease everything inside of him.

In that breath, he caught a familiar scent, faint in the smell of burning wood, rain and pine needles. Dean followed it, pressing his nose further into Castiel’s hair, which, against his face, was like velvet and fur mixed into one. The scent was definitely coming from Cas though, and putting aside the fact that his hair smelled to begin with, what was it? Dean knew it from somewhere...

It came to him a moment later, and he huffed out a laugh. “Your hair smells like apple pie."

Actually, it smelled like cloves, but it reminded Dean of apple pie and those few childhood memories he had of his mother making it for him. (He remembered so little of her, only her warm smile really.)

“Hm,” Castiel hummed into his neck, and then his hair fanned Dean’s face, making the scent grow stronger. Which was nice, but also made Dean jerk away, not entirely sure what he had just seen.

“Uhh,” he said, blinking twice. “Did... Did your hair just move?”

Castiel huffed in amusement against his skin, and his wing shifted up, almost fond in how it stroked Dean’s cheek. “I do not have hair,” he murmured sleepily, and when Dean let out a “huh?” sound, he pulled back, looking up at him sleepily. “I am not a mammal. I am a bird. I have feathers.”

Right. Dean knew that. “But you can move them?” he asked, Castiel nodding and flattening his hair in demonstration. It both creeped Dean out and utterly fascinated him, but also confused him too. He had seen pictures and video of angels with their hair/feathers/whatever all spiky, so he had to ask the obvious question. “Do you guys walk around with your hair sticking up all the time?”

Castiel huffed at him again as he closed his eyes, wing stretching along Dean’s side. “No. We use product to style our feathers, like you humans do with your hair.”

Dean lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. How had he not _known_ this? “Are you serious? You have L'Oréal for angels?”

“Perhaps? My sister, Rachel, is fond of a particular brand, so it is the only one I know. Giovanni, I believe it is called.” Castiel opened his eyes then, and he had the expression on his face like he was remembering something he had forgotten again. “She... She liked to style my feathers for me.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow at that — why was Cas’s sister styling his feathers? — and Castiel’s lips twitched toward a smile.

“But my brother, Balthazar, he never liked how Rachael styled my hair. Whenever she would turn away, he would come in and mess it all up. Like this.” He pulled back to demonstrate said hairdo to Dean’s amusement. It was spiky as hell, but he could see the appeal of it. Castiel lowered his feathers, expression growing soft. “Rachel would get so angry with him. She’d always try shoving him off the roof, and Balthazar would drag her down with him — they’d end up chasing each other, trying to knock each other out of the air.”

“The roof?”

“Of our home. We have a pool in the middle of the garden on our roof. We bathe and groom there.” Castiel looked thoughtful again, head tilting as he seemed to gain more of his memories. “On clear days, you could see all the way down to the ocean, and smell the _altin_ berries that grew on the pergolas. We had it designed to resemble a lake that joined all our villages in Jannah... A little touch of our old home in our new one.”

Dean had seen pictures of angels’ home in the deserts of Southern California and Jannah — tall, white buildings covered in plants; trees, gardens, pools of water or altin berry fields between each structure. It had always looked so peaceful to Dean, an oasis in the middle of the the large human cities that bordered it. It wasn’t the type of place he could actually _see_ himself in — having grown up on a military base and in a car — but it had always held a certain appeal for him, like somewhere he could live and be content.

“I’d like to see it,” he admitted. Castiel lifted his eyes to his, and his lips spread into a warm smile.

“I would like you to see it too.”

Dean’s heart jumped a little. Since he was thirteen, he would have _killed_ to see the angels’ home — and just knowing that he _might_ was enough to bring up that age-old familiar excitement. He wouldn’t even be a tourist either, he’d be with _Cas,_ and that was a whole other type of excitement. And not just the “so this is where you bathe... naked?” kind, but the promise behind it: That Cas would want to see him after this, that _maybe_ Cas liked him—

And oh boy, that was a scary thought.

It was such a stupid thing to tense up about, too — fuck, they had just had _sex;_ even if it was superficial, Cas _liked him._ But Dean had had enough one-night stands to know they were hardly ever a promise of something more… Unless they turned out to be, and that was the very thing Dean was still trying to avoid thinking about.

That being Castiel looking at him, and his eyes saying one thing: _I want to live for you._

For words Cas hadn’t even said out loud, they still kind of freaked Dean out. Not because he didn’t like Cas, because he did, _a lot_ — and not just because he was an angel or his hero. Cas liked hamburgers and cars, and he hadn’t seemed to mind any of Dean’s jokes (even if he hadn’t laughed at them). But it was more than that too: He had probably been in love with Castiel since he was thirteen years old, the moment he had smiled at him and told him everything would be okay. That still meant everything to Dean, and always would.

And that was it, wasn’t it? _Castiel,_ who Dean owed _so much_ , more than he could ever repay him, wanted to live for _him_. A _human_ — and what was a human compared to an _angel_? — who had done _nothing_ to earn that regard. And he had been cruel to Cas on top of it all: yelling at him, hitting him, belittling him. After all that, why did Cas even like him? And out of everything he had to live for — his family; the life that had been stolen from him — why would he chose _him_?

It just didn’t make any sense, and it was still kind of freaking Dean out. But he really didn’t want Castiel to know that, and he cringed when the angel seemed to sense it. He pulled back and looked up at Dean, brow creasing in concern. _What’s wrong?_ he asked silently, searching his face.

Dean looked away. Part of him wanted to admit the truth to Cas, but that meant he had to start at the beginning. _During the war, you saved my life and that was_ everything _to me,_ he would have to say, but that left him conflicted too. It was one of his most precious memories after all (and something Cas probably didn't even remember), and that would maybe be a little too much soul-bearing than he could handle. Not after telling Cas about Jess and the girls, and admitting what _he_ was living for…

But like before, Cas comforted him, reaching up and touching his cheek. And Dean couldn’t help it: He leaned into the touch, because it still just felt _so_ good, like it had the first time. He looked back at Cas, with his bright blue eyes that had seen him at his worst and still promised it would be okay, and he remembered what the angel had told him.

_You have me._

Dean _had_ had Castiel in one way or another for so long now… And he had a chance at more than he could ever imagine. And it made him forget all the reasons why Castiel _shouldn’t_ like him, and just wonder _what if_.

What if he saw Castiel again? Everything else aside, Dean kind of wanted to see Cas when he was healthy, and he had put on the weight he desperately needed, and when his smiles came easily to him again. That alone would be enough for Dean, but _what if_? What if he just saw where this went?

Of course, thinking that and saying that were two different things… And it wasn’t helped by his self-doubt and the long list of all the reasons why Cas had so many other reasons to live besides him. He couldn’t quite look Castiel in the eye when he actually managed it, and had to take breath before the words would come.

“Afterward,” he began, and then almost immediately faltered, feeling his cheeks heat up. It was like he was thirteen again, talking to his first crush… And when Cas kinda had been that, the irony of that didn’t escape Dean. But he still couldn’t look at Castiel. “When all of this is over, and you’re home… Well, uh...”

 _Wanna’ hang out?_ seemed far too juvenile to say, so Dean found some less stupid words. “About what I said, you know, e-earlier. If you wanna’ get a hamburger, catch up on some movies, I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted.”

When he finally managed to look at Castiel, the confusion on his face didn’t help Dean’s confidence any. Which irritated him too, because here he was getting so hung up about a goddamn _hamburger_ and _movie._ (Alright, fine, a _date._ ) And all his hang-ups and insecurities threatened to come back again, until Castiel tilted his head with a frown.

“I suppose I didn’t say I wanted that when you first suggested it,” he said slowly, and then it was Dean’s turn to be confused. The angel nodded then, expression growing serious. “I do want that, Dean.”

If he was supposed to take that as a literal yes, or if he had to explain to Castiel he meant a _bit_ more than that, Dean didn’t know. But Castiel went ahead and surprised him, lips sliding into a smile again as he traced his fingers down Dean’s face.

“I want… many things, with you,” he murmured, his eyes flickering over his face again. Dean swallowed as his heart did another half-flop and his lower half twitched. There was no doubting the sincerity in Castiel’s heavy gaze, and when he pressed his lips to Dean’s, there was no questioning what he meant.

“Awesome,” Dean croaked when they drifted apart, and he found himself breaking into a grin. (Maybe he was trembling a little too, but he would deny it if anyone asked.) He looked from Castiel’s smile, to his happy eyes and, after sucking in a breath, leaned in and kissed him again. It caught Castiel off guard, his wings twitching before he let out another of his little huffs and kissed back.

And for a moment, Dean let himself picture it: hamburgers with Cas; watching movies with him; showing off each other’s cars, seeing his home. That was about as far as he could get comfortably, but it was a nice set of images. They could go from there.

After they parted again and shared a smile, Castiel tucked himself back into the crook of Dean’s neck. He hummed against his skin, while Dean buried his nose back into his hair, stroking his back again. And with the smell of cloves and the warmth of Castiel in his arms, he closed his eyes, and let himself have this.

Whatever it was between him and Cas, wherever it went, Dean had it and maybe… maybe the afterward wouldn’t be so bad, because he had _this_.

* * *

**Present**

* * *

A loud pop from the fire jerked Dean out of the memory, and he had to blink several times before he remembered where he was. Instinctively, he looked toward Cas, still unconscious under his blanket of bough and leaves beside the fire. He looked like he was merely sleeping, and Dean had wished that he was... that Cas was still curled up against him like the night before. When they had both been happy (when they had both been alive), the island forgotten…

It was a selfish thought, and one Dean squashed immediately. He leaned over to check Cas’s vitals, but found they hadn’t changed much, the angel’s heartbeat still faint and breathing still shallow. He was still unconscious too, and Dean didn’t even know for how long — his watch had stopped working after he had been in the water. Overall, it was not good... And he didn't even know how bad it was: Cas wasn't human, so what if his symptoms were worse than Dean even realized? Either way, his harsh sigh barely held back a shuddering sob as he leaned back and rubbed at his eyes.

He had lost track of time sitting beside the fire, watching the way shadows from the fire chased along Castiel’s pale skin. Sam had yet to come back to the main part of the cave too, not that Dean expected him to. You got a man’s wife and kids killed and chances were he never wanted to see you again, brother or not. Dean wasn’t ready to face him either, not after what his brother has said to him. It had taken him a long time to come out of his daze that had left him in as it was, and he was still pretty raw and rung out. As much as he deserved that feeling, he was still teetering on the edge of a very dark hole that he didn’t know he could climb out of.

If he had anywhere else to go, he would have just left. (If he had been at home, he would have found the nearest bar to drown himself in.) But that was the problem when he was stuck on an island filled with monsters that were coming to kill them all. There were limits on where he could go if he didn’t want to die a horribly, painful death.

Even though he probably deserved that kind of death.

Dean swallowed, his hands twitching for a drink as his eyes flicked back to Castiel. But there was no comfort to be found with him; there wasn’t even any indication that he would ever wake up again. Chances were that Dean would never see him smile again, or hear him let out his tiny amused huffs, or watch him be embarrassed over his flappy wings. Castiel would never get home, see his family again, go to Jannah, change the world.

And though Dean _hated_ himself for it, he was _glad_.

If Castiel was awake, then Dean would have to tell him that Bobby wasn’t coming (because Bobby was _dead),_ and they weren’t leaving the island. And what would absolutely _kill_ Dean would be watching the hope die in Cas’s eyes, all the warmth and emotion that had filled them extinguished. Even the mere thought of that was too much, and really, Dean already had a enough painful things to think about. One of which was a certain question, the answer of which was borderline _terrifying_.

Now what?

The answer made his stomach lurch and bile fill his mouth. It made him think of Sam’s words again.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed after he swallowed bile back down, but his stomach wouldn’t let up. His chest grew tight too, and then he couldn’t breathe, his vision swimming in and out. He needed air (and a drink so _goddamn bad_ ), and he clenched shaking hands into fist before stumbling to his feet.

He limped out of the cave and onto the rocky beach, sucking in a gulp of salty air in hopes it would help. But the air brought with it the smell and taste of rotting eggs — and just the thought of _rotting_ made him think of death. Of Sam sitting amongst the mummified remains of all those people; of Cas as one of those corpses he had seen; of Jess and the girls _dead_.

Dean’s stomach lurched again; he gagged on the taste of bile, and then he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

He threw up.

Afterward, as he panted and coughed, braced against a tall rock to keep himself upright, he fought back another wave of panic. _I have to do something, I have to do something,_ he thought, even though he didn’t know what. Something though, _anything,_ he had to _fix this_ —

_You can’t save anyone._

There was nothing left in his stomach, but that didn’t stop him from gagging again. It fucking hurt too, and left him shaking, tears dripping from his cheeks. He reached up to wipe them away, which was when he heard it.

It was a low, mournful, _familiar_ sound, almost lost in the wind. His breath caught in his throat, and he looked down the shoreline, ears and eyes trained. For a moment, he could only hear the wind, which also tugged at his loose clothing, and the thunderous waves hitting the shore, sending spray several feet into the air. Nothing else, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding as he slowly backed away from the rock.

Then he heard the sound again, long and low and just as mournful. He definitely knew that sound, but his heart still leaped when a hellhound crested the rock he had just been against. Its lifted its long black snout into the air and sniffed it twice, before it fixed red, fiery eyes right on him.

Age-old fears rooted Dean to the spot, a deer in the headlights. But as the dog bared its teeth at him and a snarl left its throat, he had only one thought.

_Now what?_


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

_“That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean.”  
_ — Famine, “My Bloody Valentine,” Supernatural

* * *

It was like Dean was thirteen again, seeing a hellhound for the first time. The same panic seized him, trapping him in his own skin; forced him to remember the feel teeth slicing through skin and breaking his ankle in a single bite. It didn’t help that this dog looked exactly like the one from before too: muscles rippling under the skin of its black fur; face looking skull-like; lips pulled back to reveal its sharp teeth. And its were the same too, red as fire, and pinned to him with a look that he had been a victim of far too many times on this island. He had seen it in the werewolf, in the vampires, in Castiel, in Sam, and now in this hellhound, all of them looking at him and seeing one thing.

_Meat._

_“Is this all we are?”_ Sam had asked him in a cave full of dead, his brother looking so much like the skeletons surrounding them. _“Everything we work for, everything we fight for… Is this all we are in the end?”_

Was that all he was? Dean wondered as he watched the dog’s hackles rise, the way saliva oozed from its teeth.

Was he just meat?

Hellhounds, a cavern full of skeletons, black, gaping maws full of teeth — those were nothing compared to the way that chilled him right to his core. In many ways, it was even scarier than the words _you can’t save anyone,_ which seemed so strange. How many times had he said his life didn’t matter? How many times had he thought he would give up everything for his family, even if it meant his own life? When had he _ever_ thought his life was worth anything?

But deep down, maybe he hadn’t wanted to believe that. Deep down, maybe he had been afraid it was true. Deep down, maybe he was scared to admit that his life _wasn’t_ worth anything. But what if it wasn’t? If he couldn’t save anyone, what good was he? If nothing he did would ever matter… why did _he_ matter?

It was a scary realization, and one that left him shaking, his vision blurring a little. There was no angel to save him this time, to tell him everything would be okay and see any worth in him. _God_ , he thought as he watched the hellhound body tense as it prepared to strike. Its snarl grew louder, and Dean felt panic start to overwhelm him. God, he didn’t want to be that, he didn’t want to be _just meat—_

There was an explosion of heat and sound. Dean jumped; the hellhound let out a screech as something slammed into its side, blood flying into the air. Dean looked over in surprise, seeing Sam moving toward them, shotgun in his hands. His brother’s hazel eyes were like steel, and Dean thought he never looked more like their father; he was struck dumb as he watched Sam pump the shotgun and fire again. At close range, the hellhound stood no chance against the blasts: shot two had it yipping again as its legs buckled; by shot three, it was down on the ground, and not getting back up.

As the roar of the shotgun faded in the wind, Dean found himself unable to look away from his brother. Sam had _saved_ him, he thought. After everything Dean had done, when his brother had every reason to hate him, Sam had saved _him_. And he couldn’t process that, just watching dumbly as Sam lowered his shotgun and looked over at him. That was when Dean noticed how flushed he was, panting like he had run a mile, the gun shaking in his hands. And then he moved toward him with a wild look in his eyes, Dean tensing up in fear despite himself, instinctively ready to dodge the fist that he half-expected was coming his way.

But Sam saving him was nothing compared to his brother then pulling him into a tight hug, a shuddering gasp leaving his throat. It was the last thing Dean expected him to do (even more than saving him), and he went completely still, listening to his baby brother fight back sobs. He sniffled and let out the softest of whines, tightening his grip and pushing the length of the shotgun uncomfortably into Dean’s back. _“Dean_ ,” he hissed, trembling. “Fuck, Dean, _fuck_.”

His ribs ached a little in the strength of Sam’s hug; that was a minor discomfort, however, as he still hated to seeing Sam upset, especially over him. So slowly, he returned the hug, fingers curling into the fabric of his brother’s jacket. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he reassured, not knowing what else to say. “It’s okay.”

Those were the wrong words though; Dean nearly stumbled when Sam suddenly let him go, chest heaving as his face contorted in anger. “No, it’s not _okay_ ,” he snapped, and then he started to yell, and yell _loudly_. “What the _hell,_ Dean?! You went _outside_ ; you went outside _unarmed_. And then— And then you just _stood there_ when a hellhound was about to attack you! What the hell were you thinking?!”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat at that, his eyes falling back down to the hellhound. It wasn’t dead yet; it lay whimpering in a pool of its own blood, gigantic holes in its side exposing red muscles and the shattered bones of its ribs. It was that sight that made Dean swallow, reminding him of all that he was inside, something Sam saw too when he met his brother’s gaze again.

Sam’s breath hitched as well, all anger evaporating in an instant. He just stared at Dean, a number of emotions he couldn’t name going through his eyes at once. Horror was one; pained was another. But then they were filled in fear, and he looked away and down the shoreline.

Whatever he saw or heard, the dying hellhound heard it too. It let out another whimper, ears and eyes moving toward the sound. And that’s when Dean caught the sound over the roar of the wind: another long howl, followed by another, and then the sounds of deep booming barks.

 _More hellhounds,_ he realized, heart starting to pound again. The first one might have gone down easily enough, but would they be able to handle two at once? And if there were hellhounds, that meant demons were on the way as well. God, they were going to find them, weren’t they? And once they found them…

Sam seemed to be thinking the same thing when he looked back at him. “Dean,” he hissed, fumbling almost absently for Dean’s jacket sleeve. When his hand found it, he gripped it tight and started to pull. “Dean, we have to go. We have to _go._ ”

 _Go where?_ Dean wanted to ask, but it seemed Sam already had a plan. The sounds of barking chased them back into the cave, Sam letting Dean go near a wall of supplies and gesturing toward them.

“Shotgun shells. Grab them,” he ordered, and Dean frowned as he looked over the items Sam had stored against the rocks and an old tarp. There was a random assortment of things: half-rusted guns, hollowed out logs filled with various liquids, and a couple of open bags, one with shotgun shells at its bottom. Dean’s knee twinged when he tried to bend down, and he had to brace himself against the wall to grab them. He grabbed the bag, and looked up just as Sam went over to the stack of logs he had near the entrance and shoved them over.

Logs clattered along the floor in front of the cave entrance, and then Sam shoved over the rest right on top of them. Dean frowned, confused — he had wondered why he had a stack of logs there, but it wasn’t clear what the hell Sam was doing with them. Still, he follow his brother’s directions that he gave them: grabbing one of the logs on the ground that was full of what smelled like cooking oil, and a bag of leaves. Sam threw the leaves on the wood while Dean splattered the oil all over them, and then his brother grabbed a couple of the shotgun shells. Ripping off the top of the shell, he dusted the logs with the gunpowder, before he was off again, darting toward the fire. He lifted up a burning piece of wood, and then he was back, practically shoving it into the logs.

He dragged Dean away then and just in time: The gunpowder _exploded_ , chunks of wood spraying into the air. But the logs lit up with a _swoosh_ of heat that made Dean’s exposed skin sting, the entire pile starting to burn rapidly with the smell of gunpowder, oil and pine that made his eyes water a little. _Holy shit, Sam,_ Dean thought, watching as smoke billowed up into the tunnel of the cave entrance. Sam had created a wall of fire to cover the entrance — and nothing was getting through the smoke and fire easily.

That seemed to be Sam’s plan: The exit was covered, and no one would be able to follow after them from the ocean entrance. Sam shoved the shotgun into Dean’s hands then, with a quick, “You’ll have to cover us,” and then dove into the pocket where Cas was. Leaves, dirt and bough rained off the still-unconscious Castiel as Sam freed him from his makeshift blanket, and then heaved him up and onto his shoulders. Where that would have been a struggle to do a classical fireman’s carry if it had been another human, Castiel’s lightweight body seemed much easier. His loose wing was tucked against Sam’s head and neck (the other still tucked in its sling), and he hooked one hand over his Castiel’s knee and pulled the angel’s arm across his chest.

Once Castiel was settled, Sam turned back to him. “Dean, come on,” he snapped as he started toward the forest-side entrance. Dean stumbled after him, pulling the shotgun’s strap over his chest, and shoving shotgun shells into his pockets. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but the weapon in the hands helped him focus, remember what he had to do: _I have to watch out for Sammy; I have to look out for Cas._

That was easier said than done though: They had only made it a few steps up the path when Sam let out a curse, and then started to push Dean back. He didn’t get a chance to ask what was wrong, but when he heard the sound of bullets flying off rocks, it told him everything he needed to know. He took a peek out into the forest, catching a flash of movement, two demons moving from their cover to another pair of trees closer to the entrance.

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought. The bullets bounced off the walls behind them as they stumbled back into the cave, where they were met with deep, loud barks. At the oceanside cave entrance, a hellhound stood behind the wall of fire, kept at bay by the flames. It bounced on its feet, lunging toward the flames and back, barking again and again.

With both exits cut off, they were trapped… or so Dean thought until Sam turned to him. He gestured at the tower of logs next to the forest-side entrance, barking orders quickly. “Same deal, Dean! Knock it, powder it, light it!”

Adrenaline pumped through him as he shoved himself into the logs, sending them toppling over. Sam helped him with the leaves and oil, but Dean overdid it on the gunpowder; when it was lit, it sent flames shooting up to the ceiling. Smoke and the same stench of powder, oil and pine filled the cave, but the entrance was blocked just as effectively as the other. _We’re trapped though,_ Dean thought, before Sam grabbed him again, snapping at him to follow him.

He pulled them both into the third entrance that led to the wendigo cavern, Dean keeping as close as he could as Sam seemed to maneuver the tunnels by memory alone. They came to the fork in the pathway, one which lead to the wendigo cavern, the other to depths unknown. That was the road Sam took, the rocks growing steeper under their feet, the sound of the ocean growing fainter the further moved forward. Dean frowned when he felt a breeze of fresh air and then saw a trickle of light; Sam rounded a curve and then there was another exit, half-concealed by a rocky overhang.

They stumbled out and into the forest, Dean looking around in amazement. He wasn’t sure where they were, but he could see smoke billowing out over the trees from some distance, as well as smell the oil, gunpowder and pine.Fuck him if Sam hadn’t had that escape plan planned to the _T_ , Dean thought, as he looked back at his brother. The _Damn, Sam_ was on his lips, but it died the moment he saw his brother’s face.

Sam was scared; no, Sam was _terrified_. “Something’s not right, something’s not right,” he was muttering, looking wildly around at the trees. And while that seemed obvious (being on this island wasn’t _right,_ clearly _)_ , Dean couldn’t tell what was wrong. He reached out to touch Sam’s shoulder, his brother jumping before he looked at him.

“What’s not right, Sammy?” Dean prompted, and Sam swallowed.

“The _daemons_. They’ll send out the hellhounds to flush out people for Roman to hunt, but they don’t kill people themselves unless they don’t have a choice,” he explained in a rush, while Dean frowned, confused. “But they shot at us, Dean. Shot at us to _kill._ They don’t do _that._ ”

 _Oh,_ Dean thought, as he realized _something_ he hadn’t told Sam yet. With everything that had happened, it had kind of slipped his mind. “They’re quarantining the island, Sam.”

His brother’s brow creased, and he blinked twice, clearly confused. “What?”

“Dick thought I might told the authorities what was happening here, and he’s having the demons destroy the evidence,” he said, but Sam didn’t seem to be getting that. He just stared at Dean with the most lost expression he had ever seen. “The demons are going to _kill us_ , Sam.”

That seemed to get through to his brother; his eyes went wide as his breath caught in his throat, and then he looked out again toward the forest. Dean couldn’t tell what was going through his head, only that it made him mumble a quiet, “ _oh no._ ” But then his brow furrowed, mind still clearly racing, but _something_ seemed to be coming to him. He adjusted his grip on Castiel, pulling him a little higher up on his shoulders; the angel’s head lulled a little from side to side, while Sam looked at Dean.

“We have to go,” he said again, and then started toward the forest. Dean blinked in surprise, and then stumbled after him again, catching up to his side as quickly as he could.

“Go where, Sam?” he had to ask, even if he didn’t want to. Because that was an answer he wasn’t sure he was going to like, and made him think of the word _meat_ again.

“We _have_ to get out of this forest,” Sam muttered, looking up at the trees as if he was getting his bearings. “Roman has around forty daemons in his employment, and there’s nine hellhounds. If they’re _all_ in this forest… The fire won’t distract them or mask our scents for _that_ long, and they’re going to figure out where we went soon enough.”

 _Fuck,_ Dean thought. _Forty_ demons? He did a quick mental count, and it really wasn’t any comfort. “Cas and I killed around fourteen demons between us," he murmured, and yes that was right: Dean had shot three in his escape, they had killed four with the werewolf, six before the monster had shown up, one after him. "Your traps killed four. We killed four hellhounds altogether too—”

A few had been sent off island to go find Bobby, but they could have come back by then. It didn't really matter: That still left a lot of demons and at least five hellhounds, all armed, all dangerous, all coming after them. And who were they, but an unconscious and injured angel, and two humans with _one_ shotgun?

Sam grew a little pale as he seemed to realize the same thing, but then he shook his head. “That’s why we have to get as far away from here as we can, Dean, before they—”

He cut off mid-sentence then, stopping so fast that Dean nearly ran into him (or technically, Cas’s bare leg). The reason why became clear a second later, and Dean instantly had his shotgun up at the sight of the demons right across from them. There were three in total, with two leashed hellhounds laying on the ground. It was only the dogs that noticed them right away, snarls instantly leaving their throats as they rose their great bodies up from the earth. All three of the demons were looking up at the smoke over the trees, one talking into the radio, a disgusted look on his face. “Is it the fire that’s causing that _stench_?” he was saying, as he then looked toward the dogs, “We can’t smell worth _shit—”_

The demon paused when he noticed the three newcomers, his black eyes growing so wide that Dean could see the blues of his irises. It took him a moment to realize he was only staring at Sam however, utter disbelief on the demon’s face as his mouth dropped. “Lucifer’s ass,” he muttered, “You’re still _alive_.”

To Dean’s surprise, Sam looked just as shocked, but when he freed his hand to hold it up at the demon in a silent “ _wait,”_ Dean had no idea what he was doing.Whatever it was, it didn’t work: one of the hellhounds let out a booming bark and lunged toward them, jerking on its leash. And that made the other two demons look over and spot them, Dean cursing as their surprise quickly resulted in them reaching for their rifles. The hellhounds were the biggest threat however, so Dean beat them to it, vaguely hearing Sam yell a warning, “ _Dean!”_ as he pumped the shotgun and fired.

At almost point-blank range, it _destroyed_ the closest hellhound’s head, and made the demons yell and duck for cover. Sam started cursing from behind Dean, while he pumped the shotgun again and tried to hit the second hellhound. It missed, but only because the demon pulled on its leash just in time, the dog jerked back so hard it almost fell over. There was no time for a third shot however, as Sam grabbed Dean by the arm, crying, _“Run, Dean, run!”_

Bullets tore into the tree trunks around them as they ran, and the demons gave chase. Sam pulled ahead, running faster than Dean possibly could with his knee, the demons easily catching up to him because of it. He could barely keep track of them, losing sight of the second hellhound completely; the only thing that kept the demons at bay was the shotgun. But where it was lethal at close-range, at long-range it was useless, even though that didn’t stop Dean from twisting around mid-run to fire it at them.

The demons had to duck for cover, but with their long-range rifles, they easily could fire right back. Dean cursed as bullets flew at him again, the trees his shield as he tried to put in as much distance as he could before the demons gave chase again.

Playing run-and-shoot was a game Dean knew he couldn’t win, however. His knee wouldn’t let him for one, and eventually one of the demons was going to get lucky and nail him with a bullet before he could duck behind a tree. They just weren’t giving him any openings, anything he could take advantage of; they just kept pressing in and prevented him from losing them in the forest. It didn’t stop him from pushing back though, giving as good as he got, refusing to give the demons any advantage either. Too much was at stake: If he didn’t end this, every demon in the vicinity was going to be drawn in by the firefight (if they weren’t already on their way). But more importantly, Sam and Cas were defenseless and they needed Dean to cover them. He _had_ to protect them, he had to _save_ them, he had to prove he could save _someone_ —

“Dean!” Sam shouted from behind him somewhere — his brother having stopped to find him once he realized he hadn’t kept up. The panic was evident in his voice, but Dean couldn’t reply, ducking behind a tree trunk as bullets ate dirt and ferns where he had been only a moment before. He used his own momentum to twist around the tree and fire back before the demons could duck for cover, a trick that paid off when it caught one square in the chest. The demon fell into a sea of ferns, the others yelling his name from where they were behind the trees.

 _‘Bout time,_ Dean thought with a triumphant grin, but it was gone a second later when he noticed what was sprinting right toward him. It was the second hellhound, finally reappeared, charging at him with all the speed and strength of a rhino. It was moving too fast, faster than Dean could shove another shell into the shotgun, faster than he could ever hope to run to get away. The sight of it made him freeze up, and he remembered the other two hellhounds, their sharp teeth, the look in their eyes.

 _You’re just meat_ , a voice whispered as he watched the dog leap toward him, jaws wide—

He was yanked back at the last second, and the hellhound sailed right past him, hitting the dirt and sliding as it tried to stop. Dean looked behind him in shock, seeing a panting Sam next to him, swaying on his feet. He pushed Cas further up on his shoulders again and then tugged hard on Dean’s jacket, screaming, “Run!”

Dean had no choice: His brother pulled him along mercilessly, his knee protesting the entire way. Sam didn’t give Dean a chance to stop and fire back either, his brother twisting around to look behind him; when he suddenly shoved into Dean into a tree, Dean watched the dog fly past them again. As the dog skidded through the ferns once more, Sam tugged Dean back into a run in a completely different direction. “Come on, Dean. Come on!”

The trees ate bullets as they dove in and out between the trunks and ferns, the demons far more nimble than the hellhound and able to keep up. Still their shots seemed off, possibly because they, like Dean, couldn’t make heads-or-tails of Sam’s path, which direction he planned to turn next. Dean heard one yell in frustration, seeing him slide into a tree after Sam pulled another sharp turn.

That was the only glimpse he got, as Sam suddenly let out a sound of relief and then he twisted to look at Dean from over Cas’s leg. “Dean,” he barked, “Follow my every move!”

He let Dean go and Dean almost fell over in surprise. But he did as told, right behind Sam as he went down a path, and then began to weave through the trees. They zigzagged once, twice, three times and then Sam stopped, grabbing Dean before he sailed past and throwing them both against a large tree trunk. Sam half-shoved him to the ground, and ducked as well; the bushes gave them some cover, but also provided a clear line of sight to the path they had just been on.

 _What the hell?_ Dean thought, panting and glancing from his brother to the demons that were running straight toward them. The hellhound joined them, sprinting ahead of the pack and straight toward them again. Dean felt a stab of panic, but when he looked at his brother, there was no fear in Sam’s narrowing eyes, only grim determination.

 _What the—?_ Dean thought again when the dog hit something that made a _snap!_ noise. Dean jumped when a blur of movement came from the ferns and hit the demon right behind the hellhound. The demon let out a shriek as he was impaled into a tree, a spear now sticking out of his stomach. The other demon was going too fast to stop, though he did look back, Dean seeing the shock on his face. It was too late for him too though: the dog hit the second line, Dean watching in awe as a dead tree fell from the trees above and smashed right into the demon standing under it.

The hellhound didn’t seem to notice its masters’ fate, all its focus on its target… until the ground underneath it suddenly gave away. It let out a yip, and caught the edge of the hole with its claws, but it couldn’t get a grip. It left claw marks in the dirt as it slid into the hole, hitting the spikes below with the sound of several wet _thunks_. It was not a pretty sound, and the pained whine the hellhound let out seemed to say as much as well.

Dean realized he wasn’t breathing. He looked over the line of Sam’s traps, and then over at his brother, utterly amazed. But Sam wasn’t looking at him; he was lowering Castiel off his shoulders, draping the angel against the tree trunk. Instinctively, Dean reached for Cas, though his attention was almost immediately back on Sam when his brother darted over to where the demons were. “Sammy?” he croaked out, confused.

Sam didn’t answer, sliding to a stop in front of the demon pinned to the tree. He bent down to grab his shoulders and give him a violent shake, the demon’s body jostling around the spear in his stomach. Dean frowned, wondering what Sam was doing — was the demon even _alive_? — only for the answer to come to him when his brother started yelling at the demon.

“Did he send someone after my wife and kids?!” he cried, and Dean felt himself go completely still. The demon’s head moved to look up at Sam, Dean realizing it was the one who had recognized his brother from earlier. Sam let out a desperate wheeze, and shook the demon again. “Does Roman have my wife and children?!”

Dean couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away. If the demon was still alive, he was probably in shock — there was no taking a wound like that without the body reacting in _some_ way. (And it was going to be a painful way to die too.) But that meant there was a chance he couldn’t speak or even be able hear Sam’s question, and Dean found himself wishing, hoping, _praying_ that the demon could and _would_ answer. Why he would do anything for the human that had killed him, Dean didn’t know, but he hoped, anyway.

If he did, however, Dean couldn’t tell; Sam’s body language gave away nothing either. The tension in his brother’s shoulders didn’t grow or relax as he pulled his arms away when the demon’s head dropped; he grabbed the pistol strapped to the demon’s leg and then stepped back. The barrel he pushed to the demon’s head; Dean winced when his brother fired, the demon’s body slumping forward against the stake, dead.

It was a kindness Dean would have never given a demon, but he and Sam had never shared the same feelings about demons anyway. It didn’t matter; he stared at his brother as he took the demon’s rifle and pack, and then grabbed the pistol from the demon crushed under the log. Dean couldn’t see Sam’s face throughout it all, and the anticipation got the best of him quickly.

“Sammy?” he called, and his brother glanced at him. There was nothing in Sam’s eyes he could read — not anger or pain, just a haunted, hollow look — and Dean swallowed painfully. Had the demon been unable to answer him then? Or worse, had he _confirmed_ it? Had Dick sent someone to nab Jess and the twins to bring them here? Dean didn’t know, couldn’t tell, and he felt his heart sink just as quickly as it had risen. God, for a moment, he had _hoped..._

There was no time for further questions or regrets, however; from the forest came the shouts of more demons, even a distinct “ _it came from over there!”_ Dean’s heart leaped as he glanced toward the forest, only looking back when Sam darted back over to him. He was tucking one of the pistols in the back of his pants, before he gave the other two weapons to Dean and then reached for Castiel again.

“Come on,” he murmured after he draped Cas across his shoulders again, his voice rough. He didn’t look at Dean as he said it, but he did reach over to grasp his arm, fingers curling into the fabric. “We have to go.”

Dean really wasn’t sure how much further he could go — his heart breaking all over again as it was — but he gripped his new rifle and forced himself to his feet. Once his new weapons were gathered together, he followed after Sam, only to pause when they passed the spike-lined pit, his eyes instinctively drawn down.

The hellhound inside wasn’t dead yet, Dean seeing the rise and fall of its chest, guttural breaths leaving its mouth. Its red eyes shifted and looked up at him, and Dean grew cold when he saw the only word in its gaze.

 _Meat_.

* * *

Dean lost track of how long they were on the move, trying to stay one step ahead of the demons. They came close to finding their small group a couple times, Sam having them hide in the roots of trees or down low behind bushes. It reminded Dean of their younger years, and all the training Dad had put them through during and after the war to teach them how to survive demons. He had always been insistent on training, at the expense of everything else; whenever Dean had it in him to protest, his dad had always snapped back, _You never know when you’re going to need this, Dean._

Dean probably would never admit to anyone, even Sam, how complex his relationship had been with his father, but right now, he hated that the old man was right. He desperately wished he had more of it though, that all that training contained some secret on how they could survive this island too. Except Dean wasn’t seeing it, and whatever Sam’s plan was besides _get out of the forest_ , he wasn’t saying anything. (Not that they could say anything, trying to keep their voices down so the demons wouldn’t hear them.)

At some point, the barks of hellhounds and sounds of demons faded away completely, the forest growing quiet once more. By then however, all Dean’s efforts were just focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other as he tried to keep up with Sam’s merciless pace. His adrenaline had pumped for long that it was like turning off a flowing tap when it finally faded: His body started to slow down like he was dragging himself through mud, knee aching worse than ever. He wasn’t sure if it was from all the running he had to do earlier, or just almost two solid days of putting it through the wringer, but it _hurt_. And it was spreading through his entire body, aggravating his ribs and the vampire bites on his wrists and neck.

That was the least of his worries, though — and that was saying something when he was pretty sure he was just going to fall over from exhaustion. But with his body feeling like it was falling apart, it begged the question: How much further could they go? They could try hiding, but how long could they even do that before the demons found them? They could try fighting back, but all they had were a few weapons against fifteen to twenty demons and three hellhounds.

And their weapons would be useless against the monster if he got their hands on them. He might have taken a bullet to the shoulder, and where that would have put down any other species, Dick was a _Leviathan_. Dean had no idea what he kind of damage he could take, and he was pretty sure they weren’t going to survive the process trying to find out what could actually kill Dick.

So what were they going to do? There was _so much_ at stake — the fate of Jess and the girls; getting Cas the help he needed; getting Sammy _home_ — but Dean didn’t know how they could do it. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and he just wasn’t seeing a way out or a weakness they could exploit. Not in the long run anyway — they could pick off demons here and there, but they would run out of luck eventually. And then what?

 _I wonder if Sam has enough traps_ , he thought stupidly, and almost laughed at the thought of herding demons and dogs to trigger said traps. But once that ridiculousness of that daydream faded, Dean was only left with a question he didn’t want to answer.

What if there was nothing they _could_ do?

 _“Everything we work for, everything we fight for…”_ Sam whispered to him in the back of his mind then. _“Does any of it matter when we’re just meat?”_

Dean tripped at that, catching himself on a log before he fell over. A wave of panic rolled over him as he stared down at his hands, feeling his entire body trembling. He had been trying to fight back that thought all day, but it just seemed like he couldn’t avoid it. The hellhounds, the demons, this _entire_ island wanted him to know it, and seemed determined for him to learn it one way or another.

 _God_ , he thought, his vision blurring a little. _Am I just—_

“Dean!”

That was Sam, striding back toward him. He grabbed Dean’s arm, giving it a sharp tug. “Dean, we can’t stop. You have to get up. Get _up_ , Dean. On your feet, soldier, _on your feet_.”

Dean hated that he still responded to their father's voice, but his body flat-out refused to move. Sam pulled at his arm again, and Dean had to fight off a wave of nausea when Castiel’s foot knocked into his ribs. “Stop,” he protested, trying to shove Sam away, but he might as well have poked his brother for all the strength he had. “You have Cas.”

“I don’t care about the angel!” Sam snapped, and that made Dean start, his eyes snapping to his brother’s. Whatever was on his face made Sam snarl, meeting Dean’s shock with a glare. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care if he helped us out once either! I don’t have an angel fetish like you do, and that was _twenty-two years_ ago. Another time, another place!”

That Sam could be so indifferent about what was the biggest moment of Dean’s life _hurt_ — the one thing that would _always_ matter to him, and Sam had just chalked it up to his _angel fetish_. But it was insulting for a whole other reason too: No matter how Sam felt, Cas had done more than just _help them._ “He _saved_ both of our lives, Sam,” he snapped, anger rising before he could stop it. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he was angry… Only that he was _really_ fucking angry all of a sudden. “Cas saved _all_ our lives when he won the fucking _war_ in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Well, what good does that do us right this second, Dean?!” Sam spat back viciously, waving a hand. Cas’s head jostled with the movement, and Dean almost snapped at him for that too. “He isn’t saving us now, is he?! He’s literally dead weight, in case _you’ve_ forgotten.”

The word _dead_ sent a chill through Dean, but he fought it back. Sam could be mad at Dean all he wanted — it hurt, but he could take it — but his brother could _not_ be mad at Cas too. “He’s the only reason I was able to find you. He _protected_ me,” Dean snarled, but then his anger faded a little. He looked at Cas, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat. “He might have given up his life to help me, Sam.”

“I wish he hadn’t!” his brother cried, and that made Dean look back at him, confused. Sam wasn’t done though — irritation bled off him, his chest heaving as he seethed through his teeth and waved a hand again. “I wish you had never came here! I wish you had kept your fucking _promise_! I _wish—_ ”

Dean had flinched at the reminder of broken promises, but he grew surprised when all the anger suddenly evaporated from Sam. It was replaced with the haunted look from earlier, his brother staring off into the distance as he whispered, “I wish I had taken you and Jess and the girls and run when I had the chance.”

Dean blinked once. Twice. That was the last thing he expected Sam to say… and the confession seemed to take everything out of his brother too. He suddenly slumped down — pausing long enough to set Castiel on the ground first — before he sat against the log. And he just stayed there and stared at the dirt, sweat creating little rivulets of dirt and blood that wasn’t his own down his face. Tears might have been mixed in too, and that made Dean grow really worried, really fast. Sam had been just been so angry, and to see him do a complete 360 was fucking unnerving… And Dean wasn’t even sure _why_ , which scared him just as much.

 _I wish I had taken you and Jess and the girls and run when I had the chance._ Was Sam talking about before he had given himself up to Dick? Dean still didn’t know what to make of that, and though it was a struggle to do so, he sat down beside Sam and gently touched his shoulder.

“Sammy?” he whispered in concern. Sam looked _wrecked_ , worse even than when he had been in the cave full of dead; worse the demon had given him whatever answer he had given him (or not given him). Dean instinctively needed to reassure him, just to get that look off his face if anything. “Sammy, it’s okay.”

The words were a meaningless — things were definitely _not_ okay — but they made Sam glance up at him. There was so much in his eyes that Dean couldn’t read, but there was also guilt, a regret, and a whole lot of pain. “Is it?” he asked, voice raw and rough and sad. He looked away, shoulders starting to shake, voice tight as he whispered, “God, this is all my fault.”

That only made Dean grow more and more confused. Why was Sam blaming himself? _What_ was he blaming himself for? Jess and the girls? “No,” he murmured, shaking his head. His brother couldn’t blame himself for _that_. “That’s _my_ fault, Sammy. That’s on me, I was supposed to watch out for _them_ —”

“Because of _my_ mistake, Dean,” Sam interrupted, looking over at him. “I’m the one who put all of you in danger because I chose to open Pandora’s box, but I did it anyway, and now look at us.”

They were thousands of miles from home, on an island where everything was out to kill them. And Sam was blaming himself for it, though there was no way he could have _known_ this would happen, or that Dean would break his promise. He shook his head, wanting to protest, wanting to put the blame back on himself, wanting to tell Sam that he had done the right thing in trying to expose Dick Roman, in trying to _save_ everyone here…

Even though the cost was _awful_ : Jess and the girls' lives. What was worth their lives? Which was maybe what Sam was getting at; what he was blaming himself for. “God, Dean,” he whispered then, his eyes flicking up to him, wet with unshed tears. And in them, Dean saw _it_ again, that one word, and it chilled him down to the core. “Why did you have to come here?”

Dean swallowed painfully. He already knew Sam thought that they were just meat; he had said so himself. But he hadn’t realized how much it terrified his brother too — the thought that there was nothing they could do, that nothing they did mattered. And that made his heart sink, realizing that maybe he was the cause of that — that Sam might have never thought that if Dean had kept his promise like he should have…

But the answer to Sam’s question made Dean’s throat seal up. He had come here because he was guilt-ridden and desperate, wanting to prove that Sam hadn’t run away from his family, like a _coward_. He had wanted to give that one thing to Jess and the girls: the proof that for whatever reason Sam had disappeared, it had _meaning_.

Dean couldn’t tell that to Sam, however. He couldn’t tell Sam that Jess had believed Sam had abandoned her and their children (and would maybe die believing the same thing). So he used the words he had used before; the only ones that could sum it up. “I just… I wanted everyone to know you were a hero.”

Except he hadn’t. All he had done was prove to Sam that everything he did to protect his family hadn’t mattered in the end.

Those words were meant as a comfort however, but they had the opposite effect. Sam let out a weak laugh, his smile pained as he looked away from Dean. “Some hero I am,” he whispered, and this time, Dean saw his unshed tears slip free. “What kind of hero can’t save anyone? What kind of hero gets their entire family killed?”

Dean winced, and looked away himself. Sam was a hero, and he would defend that to his dying breath. But Dean was not a hero and never wanted to be, and maybe that was why this had gone all wrong.

What could you expect from someone who was just  _meat?_

While Dean felt another rise of panic come over him, Sam sighed softly, reaching up to wipe at his eyes and massage his temples. And that was when he great tense, and looked around, expression growing worried. “Dean, we have to go,” he muttered quickly, and started to push himself up. “We have to get moving, we can’t be out in the open like this—”

Between their fight and not-fight, Dean had forgotten they were in the middle of a forest, sitting against a log. But he couldn't find it in him to move, just struggling to hold onto everything that was inside of him. _God_ , he thought again, swallowing painfully, _I don't want to be that,_   _I don't want to be just—_

The thought was cut-off midway, when he noticed something that made his heart stop and breath catch in his throat.

It was Cas, his fingers curling into the dirt as his eyes slowly blinked open. And though his pupils were slitted, he lifted his blue eyes up, and met Dean’s gaze.

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought, heart pounding.

It didn’t last: He looked over when Sam suddenly whimpered his name. The reason why became perfectly clear in that moment, Dean’s heart stopping again for a totally different reason.

“Don’t move,” the demon across from them ordered, rifle trained on Sam. She, along with her partner, were a good several yards from their log, but still close enough to riddle them with bullets if they made any sudden movements. And though Dean’s rifle was in reach, there was no way he could move fast enough to grab it and shoot it before the demons reacted and fired back.

 _Son of a bitch,_ he thought again, heart dropping.

They were trapped.


	29. Chapter 29

“Please. Don’t do this.”

Dean — one hand on the pistol tucked into his waistband; the other reaching for Cas, hoping to keep him still so he wouldn’t spook the demons as he stirred awake — frowned at those words, and looked up at his brother. He watched as Sam slowly raised his hands up, a silent _I surrender_ to the demons _,_ and started shaking his head. “You don’t _have_ to do this.”

To Dean’s surprise, the demons didn’t immediately riddle them with bullets. The male demon looked like he wanted to, teeth bared at them, but the female had the exact opposite reaction. Her stern expression faded for one of disbelief, much like demon who had recognized Sam earlier. She lowered her rifle a little, her eyebrows lifting up toward the sky.

“ _Damn_ , Winchester,” she breathed, and the male demon glanced over at her with a confused look. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

A brief look of relief crossed Sam’s face. “Yes, I am,” he confirmed with a quick nod and quicker grin. “ _Wash_ , right? Wash, listen, don’t _shoot_. L-Let’s… Let’s just talk.”

Dean was a completely lost now, glancing between Sam and the demons — he didn’t know what Sam was doing, how he knew the demon’s name or hell, why they weren’t shooting. Stupidly, he glanced at the female, wondering if Sam knew her. But even with the yellow streaks in her black hair, she looked like every other demon he had seen, especially with her fatigues and sunglasses. That was before Dean remembered himself: Why would Sam know a demon? 

Was this some sort of plan on Sam’s part? he wondered then, wishing he could read his brother’s face. But the brilliance of the situation hit him a second later: If the demons were distracted by Sam, they weren’t paying attention to Dean, and that meant he could get in two shots before they could react. Only he wasn’t at the right angle for it — and they would need to be head shots, he thought, otherwise the demons would fall with their finger on the trigger — so Dean tightened his grip on his pistol and let Castiel go.

“ _Vah teh, kah rah_ ,” Cas mumbled absently while Dean shifted as slowly as he could, slipping his pistol from his waistband as he moved. The opening riffs of _Traveling Riverside Blues_ played in Dean’s head as he clicked off the safety as quietly as he could and then glanced between the two demons _._ But just as he was lining up his shots, Sam suddenly threw him a warning glance, the _don’t shoot either_ in his eyes.

Dean hesitated, confused, throwing a questioning look at his brother, but Sam didn’t acknowledge it. His eyes were already back on the demons, and Dean stared at him, wishing he could snap, _The hell, Sam?!_

“Roman ordered you to quarantine the island, didn’t he?” Sam said, sounding a little breathless. Dean knew he only did that when he was thinking on the fly, forming arguments and counterarguments and building a case in his head like the lawyer he was. ( _Ethos, pathos and logos_ , he had told Dean once: The keys to any good persuasive speech.) Dean, however, couldn’t believe he was trying it — and were the demons _listening_ to him? “To destroy any evidence about what goes on here? But what about you? You’re part of this island too: What do you think he’ll do to _you_?”

Dean frowned. Was Sam saying Dick would kill his own people? Would he actually do that? 

It seemed he wasn’t the only one wondering that: Dean noticed the male blink a few times like he too hadn’t thought of that, and he licked his teeth nervously. The female however, didn’t react at all, her emotions difficult to read with her eyes black like they were. Her voice was just as cool as she murmured, “And what do you think he’ll do to us if we _don’t_ do as we’re ordered?”

 _Wait_ , Dean thought, growing confused. What were they talking about? Was Sam suggesting that the demons were being _forced_ to do this? That just sent his bullshit meter skyrocketing, and he stared up up at his brother again. What the _hell_ was Sam saying? he thought, trying to ask it with a glare. There was no way in hell that Sam was saying that the demons had somehow been suckered into killing everyone on this island, not to mention the whole _torturing_ people. There was _no way_. (And if Sam was, holy hell, were he and his brother having words if they somehow survived this.)

Sam ignored Dean’s glare again, or didn’t see it, but Dean had his serious doubts about the latter. There was no way his brother _couldn’t_ know what Dean would think of that — and not looking at him kind of proved that.

“You’ll die either way,” Sam said to the demon, wavering on his feet like he wanted to stride over to her and convince her by proximity. Another lawyer trick of his, though Dean was about to object and demand Sam step back and go over the evidence again because _what the hell_. Sam’s hands wavered and he licked his lips, eyes flicking between the two demons. “But there’s still a chance we could all get us out alive. You _have_ to let us _go_. I-I can… I-I can still figure out a way to stop Roman.”

It wasn’t the most convincing plea, mostly because Sam himself didn’t sound convinced himself. But Dean found himself glancing up at his brother again, suddenly desperate to know the _how_ behind it, if Sam knew a secret way to bring down the monster. The demon however, let out a soft _ha_ , like it was the saddest thing she ever heard.

“You survived here for however long now, and you still think, Winchester?” She shook her head then, brow furrowing in an almost pitiful look. Like she felt sorry for Sam; like she actually _cared_. “Do you know that brother of yours _shot_ him dead in the shoulder, and he just walked it off? That it only made him want to hunt _more_?”

She glanced over at Dean then, who tensed despite himself. “You can’t _stop_ him,” she murmured, and Dean, for a moment, swore he could see _it_ in her gaze. That one word filling the depths of her black eyes, like mirrors to everything inside of Dean. It made Dean slowly grow cold, his anger and disbelief fading as he was suddenly unable to look away from the demon as she whispered, “No one can.”

“I _can_ ,” Sam pressed, sounding close to begging. She glanced back at him, face closing off as she lifted her rifle again. The male glanced between them nervously but followed suit, and Sam’s pleas grew more desperate, hands wavering again. “ _Please_. Give me a _chance.”_

“Sorry, Winchester,” the demon murmured with another shake of her head. "We can’t.”

Dean, still shaken by what he had seen, realized then what was happening. His shots were no longer lined up either, and as his heart started to pound, he knew he had to throw aim out the window. He swung himself up as high as he could, arm lifting the pistol up—

Only to freeze when _something_ burst from the ferns and grabbed the male by the neck. Dean only had the briefest glimpse of dark-skinned hand on his neck before four clawed fingers split open the flesh like a knife going through butter. The demon couldn’t even gurgle as his blood spurted free from each laceration, black eyes wide in surprise as he fell to the ground. And in his wake was someone Dean knew, though she was immediately back in the foliage before the female demon could fire at her.

The female demon whipped around to try to follow her attacker, Dean seeing the fear in her eyes as she turned. But she wasn’t fast enough, as the vampire flew from the foliage from her side, latching onto her arm teeth-first. She was going so fast that she _swung_ off the demon’s arm and yanked her down as she fell, sending them both toppling into the ferns. Dean saw the demon’s legs kick out from the foliage as she let out a panicked cry, before all the tension drained from them. The ferns rustled one last time, before all was still, the sudden smell of metallic blood wafting into the air.

In the aftermath of the attack, only Castiel’s quiet mumblings filled the silence. Dean instinctively glanced at him — Cas seemed disoriented, free wing flailing a little as he murmured something that sounded like _sal-tay_ — before he was immediately looking back. Sam seemed just as stunned as he was, chest heaving with his hands still up in the air, wide eyes glued to the forest. Dean didn’t blame him: he almost couldn’t believe what he had seen himself. And though he knew who it was, he still found himself gaping when she emerged again.

In the light of day, he could make her out better than he had when he first seen her. He looked over her brown skin and scars, the blood dripping from her claws, the military fatigues stained with dirt, mud and who knew what else. Blood dripped from his teeth and lips, tongue still licking it all up as she lifted her one iridescent green eye up to meet Dean’s gaze.

“Andrea,” he whispered, and the vampire matriarch smirked.

* * *

It seemed years since he had seen a familiar and friendly face that wasn’t Cas or Sam. Dean almost wanted to run over and hug her, he was that relieved. But the sight of her also had him wanting to ask a million questions — it looked like she was alone; if she was alone, where were the others? — only he didn’t get to ask.

Sam moved almost as fast she did, grabbing the shotgun from Dean’s side just as Dean was trying to get to his feet. In a heartbeat, he had cocked it and aimed it right at Andrea, the vampire immediately freezing in place. It was close enough that there was no dodging if Sam took a shot, and the three of them knew it.

Dean stared up at shock at the pure _hate_ in Sam’s eyes, and of all of it was directed at the matriarch. “Go _away,_ ” he snarled, and if he hadn’t had a shotgun, the threat would have been clear enough in his voice. “We want nothing to do with _you_ or your kind. I’m only going to warn you once: Get _out_ of here.”

“Sammy?” Dean asked stupidly, until he realized the obvious: _He hadn’t told Sam about the vampires._ “ _Shit._ Sammy, wait, i-it’s okay.”

“Dammit, Dean, it’s not _okay,_ ” his brother snapped at him, sparing him the briefest of glances before his eyes were back on Andrea. “It’s a _vampir_. They’re _vicious_. _Animals_. They’ll try to kill us given half the chance, and that’s why I’m warning her, and her nest, to _leave_.”

The matriarch had an expression on her face that clearly said _are you fucking kidding me right now,_ and her voice dripped with sarcasm that barely disguised how pissed she was. “This from a human who just begged _demons_ for his life,” she spat, and then took a predatory step forward, gun be damned. “The ones who were about to kill you might I add, and that I just _saved_ you from?”

She turned her glare to Dean then, pupil slitted in the light. Having been a victim of that glare before, Dean couldn’t help but tense. “This is how you treat your _ally_ , human? You let your brother pull a weapon on me? Let him threaten me and my _nest_ —”

 _Oh shit_ , Dean thought, while Sam snorted out, “Our _what_?” The matriarch looked ten seconds away from murdering them both, shotgun or not, and Dean knew he needed to do damage control quickly before things got out of hand. He ended up hauling himself to his feet faster than his knee would have liked, and reached out to grab the shotgun. Sam glanced over at him in surprise, and then let out a sound of confusion as Dean held out a hand out to the vampire, a silent _wait_.

“Sammy, she is _our_ ally, she helped me find you,” he said as he looked at his brother, making Sam stare at him blankly. Then Dean turned back to Andrea, shaking his head quickly as he explained, “I haven’t had a chance to really talk to my brother since I’ve found him. We’ve been… _busy_.”

 _Busy finding out I may have gotten his family killed_ , Dean didn’t say, as he didn’t need the reminder. But it was the truth too, and while her suspicious glare didn’t fade, Andrea relaxed a little. Sam, however, looked at him like Dean had told them the demons were going to kill them all again, his brain clearly struggling to process the new information. Dean gave him time to think it over, as he still had a bunch of questions for the matriarch, many of them he needed answers to right that second for his peace of mind.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and her eye flicked back to him. Sam let out a quiet, befuddled ‘ _what?’_ from his side. “W-Where are the others? Are they—”

“Safe and in hiding,” Andrea answered, and Dean let out a sigh of relief he didn’t even know he was holding onto. (But honestly, there weren’t many things he could be thankful for at the very moment, and that meant a lot.) The matriarch threw Sam another suspicious glance — Sam was now staring at her blankly — before she folded her arms over her chest and answered Dean’s first question. “I had to split us up: We’ve had demons hounding us since yesterday afternoon, and we had difficulty losing them with the weather holing us up. This morning, I had Benny take the nest close to the bay, while I led the demons away.”

 _The bay?_ Dean almost asked, before it hit him: The bay where Bobby was supposed to pick them up. _Was_ being the key word there, and Dean felt himself grow cold again. God, how was he going to tell the vampires that Bobby wasn’t coming? The matriarch especially, when she hadn’t believed he was coming in the _first_ place...

“I had been keeping the demons focused on me until that fire was started,” Andrea went on, and then looked between them, asking them a silent question of _did you start it_? Dean nodded in reply, and the matriarch lifted an eyebrow, which meant she was impressed. “They split up to investigate — three of them took the two dogs, while those two stayed on my tail. I was trying to find a way to lose them for good when they got distracted by you.”

Sam and Dean had exchanged a glance at the mention of three demons and two dogs — which was the exact number they had killed out in the forest. But when she finished up her explanation, Sam’s expression of disbelief came back and he started to shake his head.

“Wait a minute, hold up,” he said, brow furrowing as he turned to Dean. “Let’s go back: Dean, you’re _allied_ with the vampirs. You said they helped you find me. How? _Why?_ ”

“Uhhh,” Dean mumbled blankly. He realized Sam was asking how he hadn’t gotten killed — and to be fair, his brother had a point about the whole ‘killing us if they had a chance’; even Cas had said that about the vampires. But where Dean was getting confused was because it also seemed like there was an _accusation_ to Sam’s question, as in _how_ could he ally himself with the vampires. Like there was something wrong with it. It was a tone the matriarch picked up on at the very least, Dean seeing her bristle, nose lifting in disgust.

“Yes, we helped him find you. Is that a problem?” she asked, the accusation in her tone. Sam looked over at her, and the matriarch bared her teeth as she snarled, “Or would you have rather he had gone to the demons instead, and begged for their help?”

Dean tensed. The very idea of that was _laughable_ … Or it would have been if he hadn’t _just_ watched Sam talk to the demons like he had knew them, or had spoken to them before. He had known the female’s name; implied that they were being coerced by the monster. And the demon had been sympathetic to him too; she had felt _sorry_ for Sam.

But what really made Dean suddenly question everything was when Sam didn’t _deny_ what the matriarch had accused him of. And though Dean could never read Sam like how his brother could read him, Sam’s body language was an open book to him right then. And the tightness in his jaw and the slight twitch in his eyes said a whole lot, like _yeah,_ maybe Sam would have preferred that…

But before Dean could ask Sam _what the hell?_ out loud this time, the matriarch suddenly frowned. Her arms unfolded from her chest as she looked around, ears shifting as she was listening for something. Then she looked right at him, Dean confused by the sudden worry in her one eye.

“Where’s the angel?” she asked.

Dean stiffened. With everything that had happened, he hadn’t had a chance to check on Cas since he regained consciousness. He looked over at the angel quickly, half-expecting him to be sitting up already, probably in a lot of pain over his ribs and wing. Maybe just quietly nursing his wounds, watching them nearly kill each other or staring at Sam, wondering what he was talking about too. Or so Dean hoped.

Cas had done none of those things.

“ _Sal voch teh_ ,” the angel was mumbling as his head rolled against the dirt, eyes roving side-to-side, seemingly aimless. He kept trying to move too, only his broken wing and ribs seemed to stop him, as he ended up only flailing his free wing and dragging his fingers through the dirt. He didn’t notice any of them when they approached; didn’t react when Dean gently reached out to touch him. His eyes merely rolled away, another whisper of Enochian leaving his lips. “ _Vah teh kah rah_.”

“Cas?” Dean whispered, and the angel’s eyes briefly slipped closed. When they opened again, they were right on him, but Dean knew it wasn’t in response to his voice. When Cas looked up at him, pupils slits against a sea of blue, he didn’t recognize Dean. He merely looked right _through_ him like he wasn’t even there.

Cas looked up at him, and Dean knew he saw _nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, some Enochian in here, with translations courtesy of [monicawoe on LiveJournal](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/107878.html):
> 
>   * _Vah teh kah rah_ (VA TE CA RA): work, arise abide
>   * _Sal voch teh_ (SAL-((VL))-D): wonders work
> 

> 
> These are lines Samandriel says in the Supernatural episode "Torn & Frayed," but the context is much, much different, of course.


	30. Chapter 30

* * *

_“It's hard to believe you were the guy that saved the world once.”  
_ — Lucifer, "The Born-Again Identity," Supernatural

* * *

Given everything that had happened — starting six months ago with Sam’s disappearance and ending around the whole _you killed my family_ and _you can’t save anyone_ point — Dean was actually surprised that he hadn't shut down yet. He had come pretty damn close in the past forty-something hours since he had stepped onto the island, but apparently the straw that finally broke the camel’s back was Cas looking at him and seeing absolutely nothing. After that...

After that, Dean decided to just check out for a while.

He was still on some level _there_ — he could never turn off his soldier or medic side completely; those parts of him were pretty much instinctual now. But in that moment when he had been perched beside Cas, it was like being hit with vampire venom again, just an overwhelming need to not feel _anything_ anymore. The alternative would have been drinking an entire liquor store's worth of alcohol, but Dean figured if he was expected to keep it together without _that_ , something had to go. Why not feelings?

So down he had went, and almost hadn't heard the matriarch when she said, "I’ve seen this before. From fever, or bad injuries and broken bones."

She had been at Dean’s side while they had been looking over Cas, and he remembered she had sounded _so_ far away. Or maybe it was because of the deafening roar that had been in his ears as he had watched Castiel flail his wing and mutter another string of Enochian — he still wasn’t sure. "Delirium. It doesn’t... end well," she had added.

“No, it doesn’t,” Dean had heard himself say, watching his hand reach up to feel Cas’s forehead, the angel muttering _zoh bah_. He knew from personal experience that Cas ran on the hotter side, and had been fascinated by it too: It had made him think the angel’s body only _barely_ just contained all the energy and power within him. But right then, Cas’s clammy skin felt too hot, like he was burning up from the inside in a fire that would consume him whole... and Dean was going to have to sit and watch as it did. (The only comfort was that it wasn’t a _literal_ fire, but that wasn’t saying much.)

“What happened?” the matriarch had asked him then, and Dean had found himself turning to look at her. And whatever she had seen had Dean wondering if the complete emptiness inside him was really similar to the horror he had felt at the thought of being _just meat_. He could tell she recognized _it_ in the slight widening of her eye, but in the end, that was her only reaction. No real surprise (unsurprisingly), and thankfully, no pity either; Dean wouldn’t have been able to deal with that.

She had simply just looked back at Cas with a thoughtful expression, and then asked, “How can we help him?”

Dean had had enough energy to snort softly, reaching up to rub a hand down his face. He knew the answer though, which probably didn’t help him any either. (Nothing like knowing how to fix a problem and being completely _unable_ to fix it.) “We would need fluids, a blood transfusion, and probably some dopamine,” he muttered, and then glanced at her. “Or in laymen terms: a hospital and a doctor.”

The matriarch hadn’t even batted an eye; she shifted her weight on her feet and prompted him again. "We don’t have any of those things yet. How can we help him _now?"_

 _We’re not going to have those things,_ Dean had thought bitterly, but then forced himself to think over the question. He was, as the kids put it, _so done_ , but that hadn’t meant he wanted to let Cas suffer. “We need to get him to a place that’s warm and safe,” he replied after a moment, watching Cas flail his wing again with a _leh ta_. “We should try to see if we can bring his fever down too. Some anti-inflammatories wouldn’t hurt either.”

The matriarch perked up at that. “It’s possible these demons are carrying medical supplies. Sophia still also has some of the pain medication you gave her,” she said, and that had been enough for Dean to glance over in surprise. “Would that help?”

It would, he had thought, and nodded slowly. That made Andrea nod as well, and then move to get to her feet. “Then we’ll regroup with the nest," she declared, and Dean looked up at her. “We shouldn’t remain here much longer as it is, and the angel will be safe with us.”

It was a plan. Not much of one in the grand scheme of things, but something, and beggars couldn't be choosers. It had been good to have something to focus on, too, so Dean let his medic side do its work in figuring out how they’d transport Cas. He knew it probably hadn’t done Cas any favors to be jostled around while they had been running through a forest, and they needed something that wouldn’t aggravate his injuries any more. And with that, Dean decided on what he wanted to do, and after looking around for what he needed, gave directions to the matriarch.

“Get the demons’ clothes too — their jackets and shirts,” he told her, and then eyed some nearby young trees with white-as-snow bark. “We’re going to build a stretcher.”

Andrea had lifted an eyebrow in an amused _all right then_ , and she moved past Sam to do as asked. Sam eyed her as she passed, but looked back when Dean stole the knife strapped to his leg. He followed him as he went over to the trees, hissing his name as he went.

“Dean,” he had snapped finally because Dean wasn't bothering to pay attention to him. He tested the two young trees — they were roughly equal size and length, which he wanted — and then braved his knee’s complaints to bend down and start using the knife as a makeshift axe against the trunk. “Dean, we’re going with her? _Really_?”

He had paused and glanced up at his brother; seen the frustration and suspicion on his face as he eyed the matriarch again. With Sam’s whole thing with the demons, Dean couldn’t say he was really interested in his brother’s opinion about the vampires. But his brother’s animosity did seem to be coming out of nowhere — and it wasn’t like him to hold prejudices against another species, unlike Dean. So he had had to ask. “What’s your beef with her, Sam?”

Sam had looked at him like he should have _known_ the reason why, but yeah, Dean wasn’t getting it. “What’s my _beef_?” he repeated with a sound that could have been a bitter laugh before he shook his head at him. Then he eyed him, searching for an answer to a question he didn't seem to want to ask. “You _trust_ her?”

 _Did he trust her_. That wasn’t what Sam was asking though; it was _why_ Dean trusted her. But answering that wasn’t something Dean had felt like doing, and it’d also seemed like a slippery slope to asking Sam _do you trust the demons?_ Which would only get ugly, and Dean hadn’t wanted to think about Sam maybe knowing the demons, or his problems with the matriarch. He didn’t want to _think_. “I do,” he had replied instead, turning back to the trees. “And even if I didn’t, she’s helping us, in case you haven’t noticed yet.”

“But if you want to beg the demons for help again, go right ahead,” the matriarch interjected as she returned, clothes in hand. Her voice dripped with as much venom as she carried in her bite, but her glare was far more deadly and it was all directed on his brother. If Sam didn’t trust her, the feeling was clearly mutual and she hadn’t had a problem hiding it. “The female demon is still alive, if you want to wake her up and ask her before she bleeds out.”

Sam had glared at her for the jab, and then looked away, which made the matriarch sneer.

And maybe Dean should have intervened then; tried to clear the air between them before things got nasty. He should have explained why he trusted the vampire, and tried to find out why Sam didn’t. His brother would have understood someone who was doing what they had to to keep her family alive and safe, just like Dean had. It hadn’t made sense that Sam didn’t understand that, really.

But all it had taken was one look over at Castiel, watching him whisper “ _Zoh bah leh ta_ ,” as he stared blankly at the sky. And he hadn't wanted to do anything after that.

He had just wanted to not feel a damn thing.

* * *

The hike out of Ghost Forest was rough: The pain in Dean’s knee flared up almost as soon as they started out, and that didn’t make carrying his half of Cas’s stretcher across the uneven ground any easier. But it was worth it, griping knee and hobbled limp and all; the stretcher helped in transporting Castiel without jostling him around any, and Dean was also able to monitor him as they moved. And as emergency evac went, it wasn’t much different than Dean would have worked with in the field... It was just as homemade as things could get.

He had made the frame out of the trunks of the young trees, with the demons’ coats pulled taut to create the bed, tied with strips he had made out of their shirts. They had laid Cas on top, curling his body into his free wing so he didn’t keep moving it, and used the straps of the demon’s backpack to pin his lower body to the stretcher. Dean had thrown his and Sam’s jackets on him to serve as blankets, and then melted snow onto a strip of the demon’s shirt to lay on his forehead for his fever. In the end, all Dean was missing was an IV bag really (he couldn’t make one of those sadly), but for something he had built in fifteen minutes, it wasn’t half-bad. If they were anywhere else, Dean might have even been proud of it.

It did have its problems, however; he and Sam had to carry the stretcher, which kept their hands full, and meant they couldn’t hold their weapons. That bothered Sam: Not only did they have to rely on the matriarch’s “superior sense of smell and hearing,” (as she put it, as another jab at his brother), but their reaction time was much slower since they first had to lower a stretcher before they could grab their weapons. But it was more than that too: Dean could tell Sam would have wanted a rifle on Andrea while they moved, as if he was worried she would turn on them any moment, and he had to be ready. The fact that he couldn’t take that precaution left him stewing, Dean sensing his brother’s irritation rolling off him in waves as they moved.

The matriarch seemed to have the same train of thought too. It took a while for Dean to notice, but he realized she _never_ turned her back on Sam; if she did, it was always with Dean between them. She also made sure Sam was never out of the sightline of her one eye, and that meant she was often walking along his brother’s side or right behind him. And if Sam didn’t like not having a weapon on her, he _definitely_ did not like her in those two places, especially at his back. The side was a problem too: the matriarch’s dark skin and the demons’ fatigues camouflaged her, and made her disappear in the forest at times. Sam always tensed up when he realized he lost sight of her, his eyebrow twitching when she reappeared again.

If the two hadn’t liked each other before, that weird dance only ratcheted up the tension between them. However they felt though, Dean knew Sam wouldn’t explain what his problem was, not within earshot of her. (Unless she pressed him, which, despite the animosity that was palpable in the air, Andrea hadn’t.) Dean figured once they had a moment alone he would ask Sam what was up again... Assuming he worked up the energy to start caring again by then.

One look at Cas tended to derail that process completely still, and Dean would just end watching him mutter _Zoh bah_ or _Leh ta_ — _they_ and _righteous,_ Dean’s mind translated unhelpfully, for all the good knowing that did him. Then Cas would try to twist away as if the words bothered him, and mutter, _Sah teh voch leh._ (Dean was still figuring that one out.)

 _Some_ feelings did come back to him though, the moment they finally made it out of Ghost Forest and came upon the meadow that took up most of the southwest part of the island. The matriarch had them stop there at the tree line, and then climbed atop some nearby large rocks to look back on the forest, pressing flat against them so she wouldn't be seen. Dean briefly watched as she scented the air, ears shifting around as she listened. But his gaze was soon drawn back over the expanse of tall grasses and cattails that lined the various waterways, the distant mountain reaching up to the cloudy gray sky that promised rain later. Despite everything, Dean still found the meadow kind of peaceful looking, a respite from the rest of the island with its dark forests full of demons and a monster. And as he looked it over, Cas’s voice came back to him.

_Would you tell me another joke?_

Dean swallowed painfully, and then glanced down at Cas beside him. They had laid his stretcher down on the pine-needle-strew ground when they had stopped, and Dean had sat beside it, leaning back against a tree to rest his knee. Without really thinking, he reached over and lightly grasped Cas’s hand that had poked free of his jacket blanket.

 _Here’s one,_ he thought sadly as he watched Cas mumble and shake his head. He hadn’t reacted to Dean’s touch, his hand too hot against Dean’s. _A human walks onto an island thinking he could save everyone…_

“Most of the demons are in the forest still,” Andrea said when she returned, grass swaying behind her when she emerged and bounded over to their spot in the trees. She bent down to Dean's level, elbows on her knees, Dean noticing she was breathing heavily through her mouth and even wavered a little in her crouch. Vampires didn’t sweat as much as humans did when they hot and tired, so it was harder to tell when they were, but she looked it. She pushed matted hair out off her forehead, revealing the bandages Dean had put on the wounds there, the material stained with dirt and spots of sweat. “That pine-seal-fat smell from the fire is still cloying in the air; it may be slowing them down," she muttered, sniffing wetly and licking dry lips. "They’re still roughly in the same area where I last caught their scent, a good two miles east of us.”

“You can smell them even with the fire?” Sam asked from where he was standing with his back to a tree trunk, rifle now in hand. From anyone else that might have been an innocent question; the matriarch did not take it as such, her lip lifting a little in a sneer as she glanced from the gun up to him.

“ _I_ have a better sense of smell than the demons, so yes, I can smell them even with the fire,” she growled, and Sam narrowed his eyes with a skeptical look. Dean tried not to roll his eyes when the matriarch glared right back at him, and he found himself looking back at Cas, mentally shaking his head.

 _Here’s a joke,_ he thought at him, running his thumb along the veins of Cas’s wrist. _What do you get when you combine a controlling vampire matriarch, with an annoyed and pissy human lawyer? Give up? Actually, I have no idea — I told you my jokes were terrible._

“We should take a break here before we move on — I don’t know if we’ll get another chance until we reach them,” Andrea said then as she looked back at Dean, irritation leaving her voice. “We’ll have to take a different route back to my nest once we’re out of the meadow, so you’re not carrying the angel with that leg of yours up too many hills. We can fill up those water bottles you have while we’re here too.”

Dean, and his knee, certainly had no complaints about that, and he reached over to the demon's bags, strapped to the stretcher, to fish free the bottles that were in them. The demons hadn’t had much in terms of supplies — certainly no medical kit like Dean had hoped — but there had been plenty of extra ammo, a knife, and of course, the water bottles. But just as he opened the bag, he heard Sam let out a concerned sound, and glanced up at him.

“We’re stopping here? Now?” he asked, and the matriarch visibly twitched. But Sam seemed legitimately worried, looking around nervously as his grip adjusted on his rifle. “Aren’t we out in the open? Shouldn’t we move further away from the forest?”

“ _You’re_ the only one out in the open, because you’re still standing up instead of hiding behind the grasses,” Andrea snapped at him, and Sam blinked, an embarrassed look crossing his face. He lowered down quickly, and Dean did roll his eyes this time: That was like Hiding 101; Dad would have been so disappointed in him if he had just seen that. Despite her jab, the matriarch answered Sam's question, taking the water bottles Dean handed her. “But demons are miles behind us; we’ll be long gone by the time they make it here. And that’s only _if_ they manage to find any trace of us that would lead them here.”

“But they’re moving _faster_ than we are, they’ll catch up to us,” Sam shot back, and though Dean knew he had a point — his knee, and carrying Cas around were slowing them down — that made Andrea twitch again. She was obviously not used to someone questioning her every decision, and her irritation was slowly growing into full-blown anger now. And though Dean would have much rather stayed out of whatever it was between them, at that, he had an inkling he needed to intervene soon. He knew Sam could hold his temper for a long, _long_ time, but he wasn’t sure how long the matriarch’s fuse was, especially when his brother had already lit it.

“Then we’ll lose them in the meadow,” she growled, the warning in her voice saying Sam was pushing it. “Demons are practically blind to what they can’t smell during, and the waters of the meadow will mask our scent.”

That was true; Cas had said the same thing when they had traveled through yesterday. Warning or not, though, Sam pushed right back though, glaring at her.

“And what about Roman?” he asked. “Is the meadow going to ‘mask our scent’ from him?”

Dean tensed at the thought. That was a good question — he knew nothing how Leviathans hunted; how did ‘perfect predators,’ as Sam called them, hunt anyway? — and Andrea’s eye roll in reply wasn’t exactly comforting. “Well, if the monster comes, we'll find out, won't we?" she muttered darkly, "You can even maybe put that gun of yours to use, while the rest of us run. Either way, if the monster comes, its every species for herself at that moment.”

That made Sam glance at Dean with a _see?_ expression, like Dean was supposed to know what that meant. And when he stared blankly at his brother, Sam grew frustrated and looked back at her.

“But—” he started, and that did it: The vampire's patience finally snapped. Andrea bristled, the fur that was her skin rising up suddenly. The glare she shot Sam was a whole new level of pissed, and it made Sam’s grip grow tight on his rifle, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Without really thinking, Dean grasped Cas’s hand again (as if he needed to shield him? He wasn’t sure what why he did it), before he dove in between them.

“ _Sam._ Stop,” he ordered, and his brother gave him a look like he had kicked his dog. “She knows what she’s doing. If you can’t trust her, _trust_ me, okay?”

“Trust you, _trust you_?” Sam balked, and then pursed his lips as he breathed loudly through his nose. His eyebrow started twitching a little, and Dean realized he wasn’t the only one who had lost their temper. “Dean, you _know_ I normally would, you have damn good instincts, but I can’t this time. I don’t know what she said, I don’t know what she did, what you had to give up for her help, but you can’t trust her when you clearly don’t know _what_ she is—”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about,” the matriarch hissed then, cutting him off. And for someone who had looked like they were going to tear Sam’s throat out a second ago, she was suddenly grinning, a dangerous glint in that blue-green like his brother had walked right into a trap. She narrowed her eye at him, searching his face for the answer she wanted. “Tell me, human, what did the demons say about me and my kind? I’m _dying_ to know.”

Dean tensed again. It was one thing to know Sam had something going on with the demons; it was another to think that he had talked to them and listened to their _opinions_. “It doesn’t matter. I saw _enough_ ,” his brother spat at the matriarch, and Dean knew she had guessed correctly. Sam looked back at him — now that the problem was out in the air, it was all coming out it seemed. “I told you, Dean, I told you the vampirs become killers, _cannibals_ — and she’s one too. I’ve seen her kill members of her own nest, and _eat_ them. And if she can turn on her own kind, who’s to say she won’t turn on us? Especially when she’s the biggest killer of humans on this island too!”

The matriarch looked far too amused by that declaration; maybe if they had been anywhere else, Dean might have been alarmed by that. “Now I _know_ that’s something the demons told you — there hasn’t been a human release since _you,_ so you would have no idea how many humans I’ve killed,” she told Sam, and then looked at Dean. Her expression grew serious, but there was a challenge in her eye as she offered her explanation, daring Dean to question her too. “Ignoring how typical it is for _your_ kind to put nest dynamics under a human lenses, I will tell you this: I did kill members of my own nest, because they threatened others in it. And blood is blood here; they couldn’t live as part of my nest, so they _fed_ it.”

 _They threatened the children_ , Dean realized, while Sam balked again. The matriarch swept her glare back to him, baring her teeth.

“Out in the real world, I would have exiled them,” she snarled, “In fact, you could say I gave them the kinder death, because exile would have been _far, far_ worse fate. But I don’t have that luxury here. So yes, I killed my own and ate them. And I killed humans too — a lot of them — because your kind is so easy to hunt, and an easy meal here? _That_ is a luxury.”

Sam looked ill, the expression on his face a mix of horror and disgust. “You don’t even deny it,” he whispered, shaking his head. The matriarch narrowed her eye again. “You killed them, and you don’t even show remorse.”

Once that had angered and horrified Dean too; how a vampire couldn’t even _care_ about the life they were taking, what would it mean for that person who was unlucky enough to be their prey to just _die_ like that. That was usually the start of many of the ugliest skirmishes between their two species over the course of their history too (and many vampires usually hadn't survived those _vampire hunts_ as they used to be called). But now he had to wonder if those vampires had the luxury of caring, not when there were mouths to feed back at their nests, and the blood had to come from somewhere. It wasn’t like they had much choice of what they could eat either — Dea had seen how much Cas had clearly struggled to find food, and he was able to eat a variety of things, for all the good that did him.

But what was weird was Sam _had_ to know that, Dean thought. His brother understood shit like that better than anyone; he could always seen nuances in everything, always knew things were never as black-and-white as they seemed. (In high school, he had done a term paper on how vampire hunts had been one of history's darkest chapters, and Dad hadn't spoken to him for _three weeks_.) This couldn’t be what was bothering him so much... But whatever it really was, Dean couldn’t ask. 

The matriarch and him were in the middle of their argument and Dean could only watch. “Judge me all you want, human," she was snarling, while Sam's face scrunched up in disgust. "Think you’re better than me. Believe everything the demons told you. I don’t have to justify myself to you — or the choices I made to keep my nest alive and fed and _safe_. I never asked to be brought to this _place,_ and I did what I had to do to survive it.”

“You had a choice though!” Sam cried then, eyes wide, and _there_. Dean saw it: What was really upsetting his brother. And boy, how he understood it too, and he winced as he glanced down at Cas. “You could have fought back! Instead you _embraced_ it. You let Roman turn you into—”

"An _animal?"_  Andrea interrupted, and Sam gritted his teeth, looking away. Dean tensed at that word, glancing at Cas again, afraid it would upset him even though the angel was lost to the world still. The vampire’s voice dropped to a whisper then, and it was somehow far scarier than any other tone she used before, like a cobra hissing before it was about to strike. Sam, and Dean, had to look back, though it was only his brother that was risking being bitten; all of that vampire’s anger was directed on his brother.

“Yes, I became what the monster wanted me to be,” Andrea murmured darkly, and Sam pursed his lips, brow furrowing. “It was _beaten into me_ by the very demons you think so highly of; the ones you tried to _excuse._ What was their excuse, human? Who forced them to abduct us, and torture us, and _starve_ us and kill us? Who forced them to take their sick pleasure in it, or even eat us themselves if given the chance? And they’ve killed far more than I ever did: vampire, human, werewolf, every damn species that’s been here!”

Sam glanced away again, possibly because he knew he couldn’t defend that or say she was wrong. The demons had done those things, Dean had seen it for himself; they had their victims right in front of them too, and not all their scars had come from just trying to survive this place. Whatever Sam’s whole thing was with them, even he couldn’t deny that.

Despite his brother having backed down, the matriarch wasn’t done with him yet. “And now let’s talk about _you,_ ” she growled, and both Dean and Sam glanced back at her in confusion. Andrea cocked her head, her eye flickering over Sam's face, searching for something. “You blame me for giving in and not fighting back, but what have you done since you’ve been here? I didn’t even know you _existed_ until your brother came to me and asked for our help in finding you.”

Dean frowned when Sam met his gaze briefly with a slightly alarmed look and then glanced away once more. The matriarch shook her head, still trying to puzzle him out. "Every human that's survived more than a day here as tried to fight back in some way or another," she continued, her eye narrowing. "Most ended up in front of the matriarch of the time, asking for their help in fighting back."

 _“Do you really think you’re the first human that’s promised us a way off this island?”_ Andrea had told Dean when they had first met. “ _Oh, if only we work together, the monster can’t take us all on.”_ And thinking it over now, Dean realized how _weird_ that was, like it was some sort of note in a pre-written script: _Human goes to the vampires, and scene_.

He had gotten the impression many of those humans had died at the vampires’ hands however, something Sam seemed to be thinking too when he glared at the matriarch.

"And weren't they eaten?" he sneered, and Andrea lifted an eyebrow.

"Less than you might think," she murmured, and Dean glanced over at her in surprise. "But you stayed away, and did what? The demons certainly didn't help you, because we're here. What were you doing in the forest full of our dead? ”

 _He lived in a cave full of them,_ Dean thought as Sam stared at the matriarch.  _He wondered if anything he did had mattered in the end_.

“Ah, so that's it,” Andrea said then, and Dean glanced back in her, confused. Her eye never left Sam though, his brother starting to hunch up like he was preparing for a blow. “It’s easier, isn’t it? To blame me for giving up and becoming an animal, so you don’t have think about how you did the same _exact_ thing yourself. To ask why I didn’t fight, so you don’t have to ask yourself the same question?”

The blow hit. Sam flinched; Dean looked over at his brother in surprise. He hadn't wanted to feel anything, but he felt _that_ , watching as Sam crumpled and curled in on himself.

Sam hadn't fought back? he wondered.

Sam had given up?

Andrea shook her head then, looking Sam up and down in disgust. “To think your brother said you wanted to save us, and you gave up on us when it mattered,” she murmured and then her anger returned. “I don't even believe I can be saved, but if I had a choice? I wouldn't want to be saved by someone who didn’t even _try_ fighting for us _._  I wouldn't want to be saved by _you_.”

With that, the matriarch huffed and stalked off toward the water, the grass swaying dangerously behind her after she passed through it. In her wake, only Castiel’s quiet mumblings filled the air, Dean slowly looking back over at his brother. And Sam did not look good: his eyes were wet, hands clenched tight around his rifle, leaving his knuckles white. He was angry, but all of it was directed inward in a way that was painfully familiar, and hurt Dean to see.

 _Promise me, Dean,_ he heard Sam whisper in the back of his mind and Dean swallowed. How long ago had Sam given up? he wondered. Had it been before he came to this island? 

Despite never liking to see Sam in pain, his first instinct wasn't to go to his brother. It was to just _look_ at him for what felt like the first time since he found him, without guilt or grief blinding him. After everything that had happened — having spent so much time on the island not even sure if Sam was _alive_ — Dean had only briefly thought about what his brother must have gone through while he was here. Most of it had been thinking about _how_ his brother must have struggled to survive, or what could have tried to eat him, how much he just wanted to get Sam _home_. Nothing about if Sam had fought back or not... Because Dean had assumed he had. That is brother wouldn't give up. Couldn't. He had too much to live for — he had a family to get home to. He had just been being smart biding his time, waiting for an opening, or—

— _or he was just_   _waiting to die_. Dean remembered Sam’s goodbye message on the walls in the wendigo cavern; his brother sitting amongst the dead bodies, just looking at them.  _I was_ supposed _to die,_ he had told him, and maybe that was what Sam had expected when he had been taken. That he would be killed. But what had happened instead?

He had been let go onto this island.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything, Dean?” his brother asked him then, and Dean blinked, focusing back on him. Sam sniffed, glaring at the ground as he said through gritted teeth, “Aren’t you going to yell at me about the daemons, or ask about what she said, or ask why… _Why_ …”

He trailed off, and then hung his head, shoulders shuddering. Dean didn’t reply right away though, glancing down at Cas instead. In another place, another time, maybe he would have turned on Sam, but one thing he _had_ been doing on this island was realizing how it broke people. He had figured out how making someone feel guilty for it didn’t get you far, because they were already well aware of it; in the end, it just made things worse. So no, maybe he wouldn’t yell or accuse his brother of anything — he already made that mistake once with Cas after all, and he didn’t want to do it again.

 _Want to hear another terrible joke?_ Dean thought at Cas as he intertwined their fingers, taking the smallest comfort in that before he looked back at his brother. _I think I actually learned something here on this hellhole of an island._

“I really don’t feel like yelling at you,” Dean told Sam then, who looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. Dean didn't blame him: The whole "not-feeling" anything had left him subdued, and he sounded as tired as he suddenly felt. “But I’m willing to listen to the why, if you want.”

“ _Zoh bah leh ta_ ,” Castiel whispered while Sam winced, and then, after a long silence, started to tell his story. “ _Sah teh voch leh_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian translations courtesy of [monicawoe on LiveJournal](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/107878.html):
> 
>   * _Zoh bah leh ta_ (Z BALIT): They (are) righteous
>   * _Sah teh voch leh_ (SA TVLE): Remain also the last (or remain until the end) 
> 

> 
> Or as Crowley translate it in the episode "Torn & Frayed": "You, celestial being, have been created to be an angel of the Lord.”
> 
> Again, these are lines Samandriel says in that episode, but once more, the context is much, _much_ different.


	31. Chapter 31

That Sam had almost brought down Dick Roman’s entire operation single-handedly really wasn’t a surprise to Dean. He had always known his little brother was special, since the moment he had first felt him kicking in his mother’s belly when he was four. But it wasn’t just brotherly bias that made him think that.

Everyone that had ever met Sam — his teachers, military personnel at Colt’s Gate, the various politicians they had met at Azazel Uprisings memorials — soon learned that a smart and clever boy was hidden under all that hair and clothes that never fit him properly. They knew he was going places, and worked to help him get there; those who hadn’t — who had underestimated or dismissed Sam because of his looks, their father, their lives after the war — would regret it when they saw how far he had gone in life.

How Sam had nearly ruined Dick for good, that Dean had never been able to figure out… Or how his brother had figured out the island even existed in the first place. Learning the latter had been a real surprise for Dean too: That it could all be traced back to one person he knew and he knew well, whose actions had set them all down their paths and brought them all here, for better or worse.

“It was because of _Cas_?” Dean repeated the moment Sam said whom, unsure he had heard his brother right. He looked away from Sam sitting in the tree roots, and down at the angel, amazed and awestruck. Cas didn’t notice, now mumbling, “ _Zee rah, noh koh_ ” to the air, and Dean wished he was conscious so he could have heard that too. Though it was still kind of hard for him to believe, and he looked back at his brother, repeating himself again by saying, “You found out about this place because of Cas?”

Sam nodded, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. It spread dirt along his cheeks like weird war markings they used to paint on themselves when they were kids. “He… He killed _a lot_ of daemons when he first arrived here, not long after they put him on the island,” he explained, tired eyes falling down to the angel. His face was unreadable, voice far too monotone for what he was saying. “From what I’ve been able to gather, he almost killed everyone daemon here in the space of a month.”

 _“They called me_ angel _, like we call the monster_ monster _,”_ Dean remembered Cas saying from when they had first entered the ghost’s forest. He had been so _angry_ then:pupils slits, wings flared out, entire body vibrating like a live wire. _“The daemons… They kept me in the dark. They kept me in_ chains _. They hurt me. They took my sword. They_ took my wings _. They took_ so much _. And when they released me… I… I killed_ so many of them _for it.”_

He had done much more than that, Dean thought, but then frowned. Somehow Sam had heard about all those killings, and it eventually lead him here. But _how_?

Sam seemed to read his mind, explaining before Dean could even ask. “One of the daemons he killed… His father wanted to find out what happened to him. The people had told him his son had died in an accident, and he thought the circumstances around his death sounded suspicious. It made him worried his son had gotten involved in something illegal.”

 _Illegal? That’s an understatement,_ Dean thought, while Sam sighed, and looked away. “That happens you know,” he said, staring down at the ground. “If they’re not forced into it or choose it themselves, people take jobs in companies that are actually fronts for smugglers, cartels or traffickers. They’re promised good or steady pay, and a lot of them end up going through with it because of the money or they see no other way out.”

Dean felt himself tense, and had to remind himself to keep his anger in check. It didn’t really work, and he ended up growling out, “Getting paid to _torture_ people? That must make for one hell of a paycheck, Sam.”

Though the fight had mostly left Sam, that made him look up and glare at him. “It happens all the time, Dean, more than you know,” he snapped, and Dean looked away, grumbling under his breath. “Some people don’t want to get involved in it or get tricked into it, but they pay for it. That daemon’s son: He paid for it too, trust me. Whatever the angel did to him, they couldn’t even send his body home to his father. That’s how _bad_ it was.”

 _“Sometimes I left a few of them alive for the vampirs or the lycanthropes to finish off, for the daemons had hurt them too. I wanted them to know our pain, and I did. I_ did,” Castiel had told him, and Dean was smart enough to put two-and-two together. And he was fiercely proud of Cas then, sneering out a _good_ that made Sam wince.

But his brother didn’t rise to that like Dean half-expected him too, the fight leaving him again as he sighed. “Either way, it caused a lot of problems here,” he explained, and then looked out at the meadow. The wind tugged at the trees, making the grass rustle, and part enough that Dean could make out the matriarch sitting by the water. “The daemons had never lost so many of their people here; the families and friends of those who died couldn’t get answers either. That one daemon’s father… He asked me to find out what happened to him, and he ended up giving me my first important clue to work with: the company name, SparkCo Natural Resources. One of Roman’s many secret companies.”

Dean knew that name, and knew it well. That had been his defining, case-solving clue too, but he had also had three others to work with at the time: Namely, the location of island, Dick Roman’s name and the knowledge that somehow all those things were interconnected somehow. Sam had had none of that, and that meant starting from scratch.

“I did a ton of research; called in almost every favor I had to find out more about the company,” his brother went on, eyes lost in memories. Dean remembered that too: When Sam had asked to borrow Dad’s journal, wanting to hit up some of contacts listed inside. If anything could be said about their father, he had built up one hell of a network over the years. “I had to do it on my own too. I didn’t even have a case: On the surface, SparkCo was a legitimate company. They had a legal paper trail, legal death certificates, and they paid out their employees’ life insurance, so they hadn’t even done anything wrong. It took a _long_ time to figure what they were even a front for, let alone who was even behind it.”

Sam looked back at him then, narrowing his eyes. “But the real reason I found out anything and made any progress, Dean? Because daemons were willing to talk to me.”

Dean felt himself twitch at that; Sam started shaking his head, answering his protest before he could voice it. “Every step of the way, daemons were helping me,” he said, and Dean had to glance away again with a grunt. He was trying to keep an open mind about everything, but he still didn’t like hearing that the demons had _helped_. “Most of them were daemons who were upset about the unexplained deaths of their friends here; who wanted some sort of payback for them and their families! They were the ones who told me what SparkCo really did — that they were a front for an international humanoid-trafficking ring. It was a daemon who told me Roman wasn’t even human! And the ones here warned me about the vampirs and the lycanthropes. I would never have never figured out what I did without them, Dean. I would have never survived without the ones here too!”

While Dean was trying to understand and listen to what Sam was saying (he really was), that just sounded like his brother was trying to excuse the demons again. “So, what, Sam? Demons out there helped you, so the ones here are innocent?” he asked, frowning at his brother. Sam sighed again, harsher this time, and looked away. But Dean wasn’t finished. “Sam, even if they got tricked into it, even if there are good ones in this batch, they _tortured_ people. They beat Cas; they cut off his _wings._ They let a werewolf go feral; I don’t even want to think about what they did to the vampires—”

“I know, I know,” Sam interrupted then, shaking his head once more. He turned away, grip tightening on his gun. “I know they did awful, _terrible_ things, Dean, I’m not trying to say they didn’t, but—”

“Then what are you saying, Sam? Why are you trying to defend them?”

“Because…” Sam paused then, and Dean grew confused when his brother suddenly broke down again. He drew into himself, knees dragged to his chest, gun clutched tight that his knuckles turned white. His voice became choked up as he whispered, “Because I almost became just like them.”

“ _Zee rah noh koh ee yod,”_ Cas started murmuring in the silence that followed, but Dean barely heard him. He was too busy staring at his brother, confused and not sure he heard him right.

He had almost become _what?_

Sam let out a slow, shuddering breath then, before he looked back up at him. His eyes were wet, and never had Dean seen his brother look so much like his eight-year-old self, beard and all. It was like he was waiting for Dad to yell at him for something, body tense for a blow he knew might be coming.

“Do you know I knew Roman long before this?” he whispered.

* * *

When Sam had graduated law school near top of his class, it had taken some time for him to figure out where to he wanted to practice his craft and with whom. The final decision eventually came from Jess: Columbia University had accepted her into their medical residency program, and off to New York they had went. There Sam had completed his bar exam, and accepted a job with the District Attorney’s office, his credentials and references making him a shoe-in. It had been a good fit for Dean’s brother too, who had wanted to give back to the people in some way, and felt that was the best way to do it.

The job had opened a whole new world for Sam though; soon, he was meeting the city and country’s elite almost daily: Politicians, businesspeople and top government officials, all interested in a boy who had grown up during the war, and had come so far from so little. And they had liked Sam too, inviting him and Jess into their social circles, and to their many, many events. That had meant Sam’s suit-and-tie always had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice, because who knew when he had to attend some fancy dinner party for some charity, or he had to meet some important person. That was his life, and Sam seemed to enjoy it along with his work; while Dean didn’t really understand it or even care, he had been happy for his brother all the same.

But he had never known Dick Roman had been part of all that too.

“We had met briefly at some charity event for orphaned children,” Sam explained, after Dean had barely managed to refrain from yelling _what?!_ very loudly. He was still twitching a bit too, at the very idea that the monster had been around his brother out in the real world too. “It was long before I even knew about this place, before that daemon had ever approached me. I knew who he was though — everyone _knew_ the head of Richard Roman Enterprises. And he knew who I was too.”

“What?” Dean muttered, skin crawling at the thought. “Why did he _know_ you?”

“Because of dad and our grandparents,” Sam replied, lifting tired eyes to his again, and Dean frowned. “Everyone seems to know about Dad’s fall from grace, but he also knew Grandpa Samuel was part of the Hunter program, and was interested in that. And he had also read Grandpa Henry’s book — to quote him: ‘he couldn’t put it down.’”

Grandpa Henry had wrote the definitive guide on werewolf behavior and ecology — a book that had made Dean think his medical textbooks were easier reads (and he had never finished reading it either) — and it was a bit worrisome to think Dick had _read_ it and _liked_ it. Or how he would have made use of it on this island too, something that made Dean shudder again.

“I know, I know.” Sam answered, seeing his reaction and probably thinking along the same lines as Dean. “At the time though… I was pretty impressed by it. By Roman, really. I know that sounds awful in hindsight, but—”

“Please tell me you weren’t impressed because he had read one of our grandfather’s book,” Dean interrupted. That made Sam grimace, and quickly shake his head again.

“No, not because of _that_ ,” he muttered, sounding a little embarrassed. But then his face fell, and he glanced away again. “It was more than that, Dean. At the time, it was because who he was, what he made of himself. He’s a smart man — or leviathan; whatever — and though I disagreed with everything he stood for politically… We ended up talking a lot, and more than once, Dean.”

That was another revelation Dean could have done without, and it made skin crawl again. “About _what?_ ” he asked, and though he didn’t really want it to sound like an accusation, it came out as such. It made Sam wince again either way.

“Politics. Books. Investment advice,” his brother said, and Dean ended up staring at him: It was a bit hard for his mind to wrap around a monster with sharp teeth and black blood who gave _investment advice_. Sam’s eyes grew distant then, lost in memories again. “We once had a long talk about humanity’s impact on the other humanoid species. Maybe I should realized who and what he was then: He was told me he thought humans had effected the other species negatively, and that he wanted to build a better world too, so humanity’s impact would lessen some.”

Dean shuddered again at that — well, Dick had certainly built _something_ on this island of his, but calling it _a_ _better world_ was a bit of a reach.

“You know how he gives his motivational speeches for that money-making program of his?” Sam continued, and Dean frowned quickly at that, but nodded. He had watched his share of those while doing own research on Dick, and learned to hate how the crowd always got sucked into his spiel. “He was always telling me about that too: That what held people back from reaching their true potential was fear. That their name or titles would be worthless, that everything they worked for wouldn’t mean anything in the long run — and if they could just be pushed past that, their true selves would emerge…”

 _“Once you strip that away — our titles, our social statuses, our education, our humanity — we’re all just animals underneath,”_ Dean heard the matriarch say from far away. He tensed despite himself, the hollow feeling from before growing in his chest once more. _“We’re all just meat.”_

“That was what he was always looking for in people: He called it the ‘spark,’” Sam murmured, so quietly, like he was talking to himself. “He said I might have it in me too.”

Dean swallowed. He remembered faintly Dick mentioning that about one of the werewolves he had killed, that she had the _spark_ in her eyes. And he had named the company responsible for abducting people and bringing them to this island _SparkCo_...

“You know the worst part, Dean?” Sam asked then, and he looked back up at his brother. He grew disgusted then, teeth gritting a little, gun trembling in his hands. “Roman started telling me all that in the _middle_ of my investigation — _before_ I figured out it was him at the head of it all. And he offered to take me _hunting_ so many times too. He knew what I was doing — I had thought I was being so careful, using fake names and taking every precaution I could, but he knew the entire time. Almost two years of my life investigating, and he _knew_.”

Dean frowned, confused. “He _knew?_ And he didn’t _stop_ you?”

Sam shrugged listlessly, shaking his head again as he glanced away again. “I think he was using me: He wanted to find who was talking in his organization, and how exactly I had figured everything out so he could cover his tracks better. I don’t know for sure though. I think… I think he wanted to see if I could do it; see how much I _could_ figure out. He was impressed that I knew he was a Leviathan; even the few people who knew he wasn’t human didn’t know the name of his species…”

 _No one knew he was actually a dangerous predator then,_ Dean thought, and then frowned worriedly when Sam turned to him. The pain in his brother’s eyes had returned, and he looked so small again.

“But none of that matters, really,” he murmured, voice growing rough. “By the time I realized who he was, it was too late. I think he had hacked into my files, because he knew almost the moment I figured it all out. He had someone watching the house too — I didn’t even get a chance to tell anyone what I learned. He had me picked up at our door the very next morning, and taken to meet him.”

Dean tensed at that, thinking about his brother having figured out something so _big,_ and then scared and trying to hide it while being driven to an unknown fate. But while that scared him, for Sam, a painfully familiar look came into his eyes that made Dean think of the words, _Promise me_.

“Roman gave me a choice,” Sam whispered, staring down at the ground again. His voice was hollow, faint as the look in his eyes. “He wanted to _negotiate_ with me. He didn’t want to kill me; said it would be a waste of a brilliant mind and a damn good lawyer too. He asked me… He asked me to put the whole mess behind us, and come work for him instead. That his operation could use some legal counsel, and I’d be perfect for it.”

Dean stared at him in disbelief. “ _What?_ ” he whispered.

Sam swallowed visibly, and then looked up at him. “He said he would give us everything too: Would have gotten Jess into any hospital she wanted to work for after she was done with her residency. He would have done the same for you after you finished school, and once the twins were old enough, he would have sent them to whatever university we wanted. All that… As long as I kept my mouth shut and did what he wanted.”

As he listened to Sam, Dean had felt himself growing colder and colder. Dick had offered all that just for someone to keep a secret… Holy crap. “But you said no...” he whispered.

Though it wasn’t really a question, Sam tensed, before looking away. “Not at first,” he murmured, and then swallowed again. “That was when he offered me my second choice: He’d have you all killed unless I gave myself and all my files up, and ensured no one learned what I had figured out or the deal would be rendered null and void.”

Which Dean had done, by coming to the island. But he had to wonder: Faced with those two options, Dean wouldn’t have known what he would have chosen. He found himself glancing down at Castiel as the thought crept into his head: If it had meant helping his family financially like that, would he had made that kind of deal? (And knowing what happened when Sam chose the latter, did he wish he had made the first choice too?)

“I almost didn’t make either choice,” Sam answered as if reading his mind, and Dean looked back at him. His brother was staring into the distance again, looking so tired again. “He gave me time to think about it… And so I thought about running. Going home, getting you and Jess and the girls and Bones and my research and giving the people watching us the slip. We could have probably been three states over before they noticed we were gone.”

 _“I wish I had taken you and Jess and the girls and run when I had the chance,”_ Sam had told him earlier. “Why didn’t you?” Dean asked, frowning curiously. If Sam had told him, he would have had them out of there in a heartbeat… He knew how to evac quickly; always had.

Tears pricked Sam’s eyes again, and he glanced away once more, not answering. But Dean saw right through it, and shook his head. “You thought dying was the better choice?” he asked, and Sam winced. “We could have put the girls somewhere safe, we could have _fought,_ Sam, we could have—”

“We would have been on the run, Dean, for even knows how long,” Sam interrupted, looking back at him. “Our entire lives would have been upended: Jess and her residency; you and school; the girls with preschool. And all the evidence I had on Roman — there was nothing concrete, nothing that would have put in him prison right away. And even if we could have gotten somewhere safe or him arrested, I think one of his people would have found us eventually, and then what? I had already put you all in danger... I _couldn’t_ put our family through a life on the run too. Out of all my options, Dean… At least in dying, you would have been able to keep living your lives.”

It sounded cruel, and Dean wanted to protest it again. (They _could_ have fought back. Sam could have told them, and he and Jess could have decided what to do.) But in saying that, it brought up a question Dean had had earlier, that he had only been able to guess the answer to.

“Is that why you didn’t fight back when you got here?” he asked. “Is that why you gave up?”

It wasn’t meant to be an accusation — Dean understood why he hadn’t — but Sam winced anyway, looking away. “Yes, that’s why,” he said as he stared down at the ground again, shame in his voice. “You know, I never figured out what he was doing with the people here on the island, Dean; not until I came here, and he _showed_ me. And I met the daemons here too, some of them, the good ones, I could have been like. Faced with same two choices just like I had been; either stay here and do what Roman tells you, or you and your family would die in the worst way possible: Being fed to the animals he created.”

Even Dean had to grimace at that. So that was what Sam had meant, that he was like the daemons. And maybe his brother was right: Dean had looked into that one daemon’s eyes and had seen only one thing: helpless and hopelessness. _You can’t stop him,_ she had said, _No one can._

“You know what he told me, Dean, before he let me go?” Sam continued, and Dean frowned. “He said: ‘I want you to meet all the people you were trying to save.’ And I met them, Dean. I did. I saw everything that they had been turned into _so_ easily, without once fighting back or even trying to hold onto a shred of their humanity. And it left me wondering... What exactly I had given up everything in my life for?”

Dean winced again. Sam, stuck on an island determined to prove you were just meat, would have met a shell of an angel, cannibalistic vampires who might have eaten him at first glance, a feral werewolf and who knew what else. If Dean had been sent here to die, what would he have thought about everyone here? Hell, he hadn’t even been sent here to die, and look at what he had thought of _Cas_. That made him glance down guiltily at Castiel again, the angel still continuing to murmur away.

Sam looked back at him then, tears in his eyes once more. “It’s awful, isn’t it?” he asked hoarsely and Dean frowned again. “That I ended up blaming everyone here for something that wasn’t even their fault? That it was easier to hate them for not fighting back and giving up, even knowing what happens to them? That I hated I gave up everything for _them_?”

A few tears slipped free, and Sam’s lips trembled as he looked away again. “And isn’t it awful that I blamed you for getting my family killed, Dean? That even now I want to blame you and them for everything, even though it’s _my_ fault we’re all in the mess in the first place? That if I had been more careful, or if I had made another choice...”

He trailed off, unable to continue, and Dean watched his shoulders shaking as he tried not to cry. And it still wasn’t any easier, even partially tuned off from his emotions as he was, to see his baby brother like that. To see someone he loved so very much reduced to what he was now: A shell of a man who would have never forgotten who the real victims were; who had come to hate the very people he had been trying to save. That was awful. It was the worst really.

 _How could you think like that?_ Dean might have asked him once, and it would have been an accusation. _How could you let him change you like that?_

But Dean knew now what’s what Dick did. That’s what this island did.

The choices they had all made — Dean coming to this island, the matriarch and Cas becoming animals, Sam giving up everything for his family and becoming an animal too — had all been because of Dick.

And he may have taken as much as he did, but they could chose not to let him break them any more than he had.

“It is awful you think that way, Sammy, but I understand,” he found himself saying after a long moment, looking back at his brother. Sam frowned at him, brow furrowing slightly in confusion, and Dean felt his lips twitch toward a smile. “You should have seen how angry I was at Cas when I first came here. I accused him of not fighting back either, but as you know well, he _fought_ … And he still broke and became what he became.”

Sam glanced guiltily at Castiel, while Dean went on, “But that’s what this place does to you. What Dick designed it to do: It takes your humanity away from you, right? And he did the same to you. And you gotta’ get it back.”

His brother turned a wide-eyed stare to him, like he had never thought about that before. And maybe he hadn’t — maybe lost in his grief and guilt and pain, Sam had never thought to blame Dick for that too. The thought seemed to render him speechless, before he whispered, “How do I get it back, Dean?”

That made Dean hesitate. He actually wasn’t sure: It wasn’t as easy as telling Sam to forgive himself and place the guilt on someone else. It was still his choice he had made, and something he had to live with, without killing him. And that was easier said than done.

Dean looked back down at Castiel then, at where his hand was still curled around the angel’s. And he found himself thinking back to the night before, when he and Cas had been sitting in front of the fire, tears in his the angel’s eyes. How he had hated himself for not fighting back and giving in… Just like Sam had. Just like how Sam now hated himself. And what had Dean said to Cas then…?

_Promise me, Dean._

_Oh,_ Dean thought, heart thudding in his chest.

“Before you disappeared, you made me make a promise,” he said slowly as he looked back up toward his brother’s. Sam’s eyes flew to his, alarmed. “That I would look after your family, if anything happened to you.”

Sam winced, and started shaking his head. “Dean, I— I’m sorry, I should have never—” he began, only for Dean to hold up his free hand to stop himself.

“But you didn’t just ask me to make that promise for that reason alone,” he continued, and Sam’s mouth clicked shut. “You… You knew how I would feel when you disappeared. You knew I would do anything to find you, even if it killed me. And you wanted to give me something to live for, until I could figure out how to do it myself.”

His brother grimaced, but then nodded. Dean found himself nodding too, marveling at how easy this was coming to him. The whole disconnecting from his emotions thing had made him so much wiser, shit. “Then, I’m going to say this: You can’t blame the people here for what happened to them, anymore than you can blame yourself. You gave up like they did, Sam… And now you gotta’ figure out what to live for. Which should be easy: You still have somethin’ to live for out there, but you’re going to have to fight to get back to them. It’s the only way you’ll get your humanity back too, I think. You have to _fight_.”

“How?” Sam asked quickly, tears in his eyes again. “How do I fight back? How do we fight and survive this, Dean?”

It seemed impossible. Maybe it was impossible. “I don’t know,” he murmured, knowing that wouldn’t comfort Sam any, and it did make his brother wince again. “Maybe we won’t survive this, Sammy. Maybe we’ll die here, and everything we fought for won’t matter… But at least we _fought_.”

Sam stared at him for a long time after that, before he finally looked away. Dean couldn’t tell what he was thinking, watching as he then pushed to his feet, gun falling to his side. “I… I need a moment,” he whispered, and then stumbled off… But not far, only to a nearby tree, sinking down into its roots. There he sat, staring out at the meadow again, lost in thought.

Dean let him be, knowing Sam needed that moment to think like Cas had to have, and it was best done uninterrupted. With a soft sigh, he looked back down at his angel, watching him mumble away. Then he frowned, realizing Cas was murmuring his name now in his Enochian ramblings, even though his eyes still stared into space.

“ _Zee rah noh koh ee yod, Castiel_ ,” he whispered, and then he shifted his head away like something about those words bothered him. Dean wasn’t sure what he was saying — he was a _something_ to god (which had to be Michael; he was the only real god to angels) — and he wondered why these Enochian words plagued Cas’s delirium. Not that knowing the answer would help Cas any, Dean thought, before he lifted Cas’s hands to his lips, and just wished he could.

 _“Zee rah noh koh ee yod, Castiel_ ,” Cas whispered, and then paused. Dean heard him suck in a breath, and then murmur, “ _No_.”

Dean looked back up at him in confusion. Cas had gone still, his eyes still staring off into nothing, but there was something _different_ about him. Then, his brow creased a little, fingers curling tight around Dean’s hand.

“ _Zee rah doh, Cas,”_ he whispered. “ _Zee rah doh,_ Cas _.”_

Dean felt his heart start to pound. “Cas?” he whispered, and then went speechless as Castiel’s eyes, his pupils slits the entire time he had been awake, slowly return back to normal. And as Dean stared at him, the angel’s eyes slowly lifted up and met his.

This time, he _saw_ him, Cas’s chest heaving as his gaze flicked over Dean’s face.

“I am Cas,” he whispered, and Dean swallowed, his vision blurring a little. It was a bit overwhelming — and while he wasn’t sure what had just happened (or why Cas had to say who he was), it was _Cas_. And Cas had _seen_ him.

Those words were all Cas could manage it seemed, his eyes drifting closed as his head fell back against the stretcher. And while he fell almost immediately asleep, his hand still held onto Dean’s, and didn’t let go.

* * *

It was a long walk to the vampire nest, and Sam was quiet for most of it. Through the meadow and back into the forest, he was lost in thought, not even noticing the suspicious looks the matriarch threw at him the entire way. Dean watched him too, the slump in Sam’s shoulders giving him no clues to where his brother’s head was at. It was the same with Castiel in many ways, mumbling nonsensically away in his dreams now, though he still clung to Dean’s hand whenever Dean paused to check on him.

It seemed to take hours, but they eventually made it to the vampire nest’s hiding spot. It was near the coastline, the ocean wind tugging at the trees, and as they came to a stop, Dean had to marvel at how far they had walked. One from one end of the island to the other, though he looked out around at the trees and rocks, and wondered where the rest of the nest were. The matriarch hadn’t been kidding when she said they had went into hiding — there was no sign of them.

“Where are they?" he asked as he looked at her, and Andrea smirked.

"In a place the angel inadvertently showed us," she said, and then turned her eyes upward toward the rocky hill they were near. It was tall, the lower half not even scalable as it look like it had been sheared clean off, the top half dotted with dark crevices and holes. She pointed to one spot, and then murmured, "Watch."

Dean did, glancing over once when she let out some sort of call that came from her throat, quiet, but at the same time _loud_. Dean could feel it vibrating in his chest, and it made goosebumps crawl up his arms as he looked over at the matriarch again. It served as some sort of a signal, and Dean jumped a little when a head popped out from one of the holes in the hill, followed by another, and then another. A trio of vampires looked down at them, and the matriarch smiled at the sight of them, Dean seeing some of the tension in her muscles drain away.

It was hard to read the look on Sam's face as the vampire family climbed down from the rocks to greet Andrea, sliding down at the midway point like the world’s weirdest slide. His brother's eyes fell onto the little girl, Elpis, as she sleepily hung off Benny's arm and smiled when Andrea patted her head and tugged at her braid. Sam looked up to the baby Drake next, who was tucked into Benny's jacket, fast asleep. (Vampires usually slept during the day, so it was no surprise he was out like a light, Dean thought.) Sophia hung out in the back, waiting until Benny and Andrea had briefly pressed foreheads together before they too did the same. As they did, Benny turned away and looked over the rest of them with half-lidded blue eyes.

“Brother,” he said cordially, voice rough from sleep, and held out his good hand to shake. Then he glanced over at Sam, and a smile grew on his lips. "And _the_ brother. I’m Benny. Heard a lot about you, Sam."

Sam stupidly shook his hand too, face a mixture of confusion and shock as he again glanced at the children. And that had Dean wondering if Sam had even known about them... Or if like Dean, he was just as surprised to see them there.

He didn't get a chance to ask: Since Dean wasn't able to climb up the rocks to their hiding space, knee aching so badly he was surprised he could stand really, the matriarch moved them toward a nearby rocky outcropping. It looked like all the rocks leftover from where the hillside had looked sheared off, now piled high and creating a hiding spot for them. Once they were settled, hidden against the rocks by bushes and trees, they lay Cas's stretcher out on top of the roots of two trees. Sophia gave the painkillers she had leftover to Dean, and then he tried to wake the angel up again in hopes of getting him to take some .

It was while they were doing that — Cas fighting them on waking up, and mumbling something about _no, he didn't want to go flying over the Himalayas_ , (which Dean had no idea what to make of) — that Sam spoke up again. He ended up saying something that made them all look over at him where he was sitting on the rocks, gun resting against his side.

“What?” Dean asked, not sure he had heard him correctly. He glanced over, wondering if someone else had heard, but nope: the matriarch had an equally confused expression on her face.

Sam, eyes wide, looked away from where Benny was sitting with the children, and over to Dean and Andrea. Then, he sucked in a deep breath, and repeated himself.

“I... I may know a way to stop Dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian translations courtesy of [monicawoe on LiveJournal](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/107878.html):
> 
>   * _Zee rah noh koh ee yod_ (ZIR NOCO IOD/IAD): I am (the servant) of the eternal god
>   * _Zee rah doh_ (ZIRDO): I am 
> 

> 
> "ZIR NOCO IOD" is a line Gadreel says in the Supernatural episode "Road Trip."
> 
> Also, for the very first part of Sam's story in this chapter, I wrote a vignette about it, called [Sympathy for the Devil](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4152588/chapters/9401553).


	32. Chapter 32

“There’s a chance that our contact that was coming to evac us isn’t going to make it.”

Dean wished he could duck and hide from the look Andrea slowly turned to give him when Sam said that, but his brother was quick to rise to his defense. “It isn’t his fault; he didn’t know,” he protested, and her unimpressed glare slid over to him next. “Roman suspected Dean might not have been working alone, so he sent daemons out to the mainland to search for any accomplices. The daemons have had two-and-a-half days to look for our contact, and we have no way of knowing if they found him or not. And I'll don't think we have the time to wait around and find out.”

The reminder that he might have gotten Bobby killed too didn’t do Dean any favors, but when he glanced over at the other vampires circled around him and Sam, it just made him feel sick all over again. Andrea he knew hadn’t really believed him, but one look at the other vampires said maybe they actually had, and had even allowed themselves to hope. Benny’s lips twitched toward a grimace, and then he let out the softest of sighs; Sophia’s eyes widened a little, before she looked away, a curling fist at her side giving away everything she felt. At least the children were asleep, Elpis dozing under bough nearby, and Drake still curled up in Benny's jacket; Dean couldn’t imagine how they might have felt if they understood what was going on.

“That’s why we need another plan,” Sam continued while Dean looked down at the sleeping Cas, seeking the small comfort he could get from where the angel was clinging to his hand. Andrea interrupted his brother mid-sentence, voice growing thick with a snarl.

“If you say _kill the monster—”_ she said, and Sam let out an annoyed sound.

“ _No_. I have a better idea.” He moved then, and Dean looked back as his brother bent down to the ground, picking up a twig to start drawing in the dirt. The odd shape he sketched out Dean soon recognized as the island, his brother glancing up once to locate the mountain and drawing that in too. It was a decent map, and it included the small secondary island right off the coast. Sam drew an ‘X,' there and then looked up at the rest of them, tapping his finger against that spot twice.

“This is my plan,” he said, eyes roving between the vampires and Dean. “We head for Roman’s base, and try to get inside.”

While the vampires exchanged glances, Dean frowned, confused. _Dick’s base?_ he wondered, before it hit him: _Wait, he means the lodge._ It was the resort-looking building he had gone to find Dick in when he first came onto the island, searching room after room until he came across the monster's den and his _trophy_ collection. The mere thought of that made Dean feel sick again, and he almost missed what Sam said next: “Once inside, we find a phone or long-range radio, and we call for help.”

Dean tensed and glanced over at Sam quickly. It was a plan he himself had after his run-in with the werewolf, before Cas had told him to go to the vampires to ask if they knew where Sam was. Back then, he had thought he would have to kill Dick first to do it, but in hindsight, that probably would have ended badly.

After everything they knew now, would Sam's plan even work? he wondered. He didn't get a chance to ask, however: Andrea let out a snort, cutting off Dean before he could even open his mouth.

“Get inside?” she repeated, and both Dean and Sam looked over at her. Andrea sat back against a rock, arms folding across her chest as she lifted a disbelieving eyebrow at Sam. “Into the place that is completely inaccessible unless you swim there and somehow slip past the electric fences sopping wet? Or by reaching the door the demons release us from _without_ triggering any of the traps the demons set up?”

“Yes,” Sam said, while Dean winced at that reminder. He had forgotten about those traps: Not only how he had walked right into one — and how hard it was to get out of it — but also how it had taken him hours to maneuver out of that area, hoping he didn’t accidentally set one off again. 

But that was also where he had met Cas, and that thought made Dean look back down at the angel. It wasn’t exactly his fondest memory — what with Cas kicking his ass and almost slicing his neck open — but after everything that happened since, Dean couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. (It was almost a simpler time: When he had been so full of hope at the thought that Sam might be alive…)

“I’m going to assume no one ever told you about how every vampir nest here has tried to get inside the monster’s prison and _failed_ ,” Andrea said and Dean glanced over at her. Though she and Sam hadn’t talked much since their argument, he could hear some familiar frustration creeping back into the matriarch’s voice: Like Sam was being deliberately difficult, and that pissed her off. “Those who did get past the traps could never figure out how to open the door, and the demons eventually found them and killed them. Those who swam over, and were lucky enough not to be swept into the tides to drown were then killed at the fences by the demons.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Sam said matter-of-factly, and Dean watched as the matriarch’s eye twitched violently. “But the daemons aren’t there right now. _They’re all out on the island_.”

That made the matriarch start in surprise, her eye widening a little. Dean looked back at Sam confused and not really sure where they were going with this. He watched as his brother quickly returned to his map, using the twig to draw a circle in the area on its left side.

“Assuming they’re following our trail, the daemons are probably in the meadow right now,” he said, and then started drawing a line, continuing on, “To avoid them, we can just follow the beach from the bay, and then cut back into the forest where the river meets the ocean. After that, we can head for the door.”

Sam finished drawing the path he described, and then tapped the twig on the spot Dean assumed was ‘the door.’ “The only problem is _time_ ,” his brother said, and then looked up at them again. “It’ll take a few hours to get to the river, and one or two just to get through the field. For that kind of window, we’ll need to keep the daemons, and Roman if he’s with them… _distracted_.”

His eyes settled on Andrea as he said that, and the matriarch’s face went completely blank. After a long moment of staring at Sam, Dean confused and wondering what was going on, she murmured quietly, “You want _us_ to distract them.”

At that, Dean’s eyes shot to his brother in surprise — _what?_ was all he could think — as did the two other vampires’. Sam quickly shook his head.

“No,” he said, and then looked between them again. “Your nest is injured, and you have young too. I say we move them and the angel to the bay, and if our contact _does_ make it, he can pick them up and get them off the island. If not, they’ll at least be in hiding, and the daemons might not think to look for them there. In the meantime, Dean and I will head for Roman’s base: I may know a way through that door, and I know who to call once we’re inside so we can get an evac here as soon as possible.”

Sam had some _serious_ connections, and Dean had no doubts he could find the right person to send every authority there was to the island. And that made his heart lift a little, wondering if they could actually pull this off... But there was still a question that hadn’t been answer: If _they_ were going to the base, and the other vampires and Cas were going into hiding, that meant—

“You want _me_ to distract the demons,” Andrea said, and Sam pursed his lips, before he nodded once.

It was like a miniature explosion went off between Benny and Sophia the second that went through the group. “No, no, _no,_ you can’t, you just _went_ out—” Benny started while Sophia’s Russian accent made her difficult to understand when she was speaking so fast. Even Dean had to join in however, turning to his brother and shaking his head. He couldn’t believe what Sam was asking: Have one person hold off fifteen-something demons and a monster for up to _how long?_

“S-Sammy," he spluttered, "You — you can’t be _serious._ ”

His brother looked at him and then leaned toward him, voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s the only way, Dean," he said hurriedly, "We _need_ to get inside Roman’s base. Not only can I get us help, I can call _Jess_ too.”

Dean froze. _Call Jess?_ he thought, confused, and Sam answered the question before he could voice it. “I’ve realized something, Dean: Roman won’t bring Jess and the girls here, not when he’s trying to kill off everyone on the island. That means he might not have gone after them yet, and if I can get a message out to her…”

 _He can warn them_ , Dean finished inside his head, but then frowned quickly. But at what cost? 

“What you’re asking, Sam," Dean murmured, shaking his head. One vampire against an entire  _army_ of demons, plus a leviathan? "It's... It’s _suicide._ ”

His brother didn’t answer, his eyes back on the matriarch, not breaking eye contact again. And she did the same, the heated, protesting whispers of her nest not appearing to phase her at all. She simply stared at Sam, and Dean couldn’t tell if she was thinking over his proposal or plotting Sam’s murder — her expression was _that_ hard to read. But then she held up her hand, and immediately the other two vampires went quiet, though it was clear they weren’t happy about it. Benny let out a long frustrated hiss; Sophia was a little more subdued, though there was an angry look in her yellow eyes as she flicked them to Dean and then Sam.

Andrea shifted forward to lean toward Sam, hands interlocking just over her knees. “And _why_  should I do this?” she asked Sam, voice low and dark, barely hiding her anger. Her eye narrowed, and her lip lifted a little in a sneer. “Why should I help _you_?”

The plan itself aside, Dean almost couldn’t blame her for that, not after her fight with Sam. But his brother rose to the challenge, sitting forward as well. “If I thought Dean and I could do it, we _would,_ " he said, and then shook his head. "But now we're talking species limitations: Even if we gave it our best effort, even with our weapons, we’re at a huge disadvantage against daemons and their dogs. As a vampir, you are more evenly matched.”

That was true. (Even though one vampire against an army of demons and three hellhounds weren't exactly _evenly matched_ , Dean thought.) The matriarch lifted an eyebrow, but Dean couldn’t tell if she was conceding the point; Sam seemed to take it as that though, and went on. “It’s really going to come down to one thing however, and that’s this: We’re not going to survive much longer here. Either the daemons kill us, or we all die from starvation, exhaustion or exposure. We can’t win in a full-on fight either: There’s more than a dozen of them. And that's not counting Roman, who none of us know what would it actually take to kill him. This plan? It may be our _only_ chance of making it off this island alive.”

Looking at it from that way, Dean could see where Sam was coming from. The matriarch, however, did not seemed convinced. “But we’re _far_ more likely to die in the next few hours,” Andrea replied, looking Sam up and down with an unimpressed lift to her eyebrow. “And instead of waiting for the inevitable — where all three of us die, and leave our most vulnerable _vulnerable_ — we could just _eat_ you."

Dean tensed, and looked back at her, not entirely sure if she was kidding. The matriarch sneered at Sam then, anger growing in her voice, "Then I can find us the deepest, darkest hole to hide in and see how long it takes the demons to find us. We’ll probably survive much, much longer my way, and my family won’t die because of someone who didn’t bother to help us until _his_ family’s lives were on the line.”

Dean winced, while the other vampires exchanged glances again. He actually wasn’t surprised she had overheard his and Sam’s conversation (vampires _did_ have damn good hearing), and looking at it from her point of view...  _Ouch_.

Sam ducked his head at that, and Dean watched as he took a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing shut. Even then, Dean could read the guilt and shame on his face, his eyes wet when he opened them up again and looked back at the matriarch.

“You’re right,” he whispered, and her eye narrowed suspiciously. Sam licked his lips absently, and then he spread out his hands and shook his head again. “My family is in danger, and it took that for me to realize what I’ve done; the mistakes I made. I forgot… I forgot that you were victims of this place, and I blamed you for something that wasn’t even your fault.”

Sam glanced at Benny and Sophia, over at the sleeping children, and then down at Cas. “But the biggest mistake I made was that I gave up and didn't even try to fight for you,” he murmured sadly, and up at Dean, tears pricking his eyes. “And it was right when I _needed_ to fight the most. And for that… I’m sorry.”

Sam glanced away again, bringing his hands back together as he took a deep shuddering breath. Then he looked back over at Andrea, and said, “But I’m here now, and I’m coming to _you_ , as every human before has to the matriarch of the time. And I’m asking this: _Please_ help me.”

Having her own words served back to her made Andrea narrow her eyes, but other than that, she remained quiet. She just looked at Sam again: sizing him up, imagining her teeth in his throat again, Dean didn’t know. He had no idea if she was going to agree to it or not, that was for sure, and he wasn’t sure if he would blame her if she didn’t. (And that scared him a little: If she didn’t, would she make good on her threat to eat them? Was that was this going to come down to? Desperation tearing them apart?)

But whatever Andrea decided, it wasn’t what Sam or him expected. Instead, she let out a snort through her nose, and her eye slid over to Dean.

“ _You_ ,” she said to him, and then jabbed her finger at his direction. “I want to talk to you. _Now_.”

Dean exchanged a surprised and confused glance with Sam as the matriarch got to her feet and stormed off. Dean had no idea what she wanted to talk to him for, but the order was clear, so he tried to get up to follow her. That proved difficult however; it was a struggle to unlatch his hand from Cas’s, who tugged it back twice when he tried to move.

In the time it took him to get free (who knew sleeping angels could grip so tight?) and then to limp over, the matriarch's anger had started to tear at her normally cool and collected appearance. Frustration bled off her as she paced the small space between the trees, and Dean hesitated when he noticed that. _Oh boy_ , he thought worriedly before he approached her; when he did, she whirled around, and directed all that anger right onto him.

“I don’t _like_ your brother,” she snapped, and considering her reasoning why, Dean couldn’t blame her. And considering what Sam had asked her to do, he couldn’t rise to his defense when she growled, “I don’t like his plan either — and not just the part where I play cat-and-mouse with the demons and the monster. He’s asking me to leave my family in a place where I can’t protect them when this all goes _wrong_.”

That seemed to be end of the rant, as she huffed and began to pace again. Dean had no idea what to even say, though he understood where she was coming from: Not only were they leaving injured and children behind, Cas would be with them too. And that made Dean uneasy; even though Cas had improved a little, he wasn’t out of the clear yet. If he suddenly got worse, who would be around to care for him…?

But what choice did any of them have? Dean wondered. Even with what Sam was asking all of them to do, they were going to _die_ otherwise. His brother’s plan was _something_ at the very least…

“Sam’s right though,” he said, watching the matriarch move back and forth. He didn’t exactly know if he was here to persuade her or not, but if Sam couldn’t, maybe it was up to him. “This may be our only option.”

Andrea paused by one of the trees, and then she turned to face him. “And when I’m dead, and you and you and your brother are strung up in a tree somewhere, what will our option be then?” she asked. She folded her arms across her chest, adding, “And that’s assuming we even get that far; that the demons and the monster don’t find us first.”

That _was_ a big possibility, Dean thought; even though they had lost them back in the ghost’s forest, the demons would catch up to them at any time. And that was why they needed a plan, which Sam had given them, though Dean was struggling to come up with a silver lining to it all. “Well, I made it through the trap field once, and you led the demons away from your nest already,” he said finally, but she didn’t look very convinced. Dean gave her a weak shrug. “We have to try, don’t we?”

She snorted again, and then looked him up and down. “Do you really  _believe_ it matters if we try?” she asked. Dean hesitated, not sure exactly what she was asking, and she shook her head. “I remember you from earlier, when you believed that boat of yours was coming. Full of conviction and hope and _righteousness_. Willing to fight the monster, the angel said, and I could see why he believed in you. Why he was willing to protect you for it.”

Dean tensed despite himself — she had _seen_ that? Andrea’s eye flicked over him again, and then her gaze grew sad. “But now look at you,” she murmured. “You’re one of us now.”

That made Dean tense up again, before he had to look away. He _was_ one of them now — an animal, _meat_ — he already knew that... But he hadn’t started out that way. Andrea was right: He had once been full of hope and conviction, maybe even righteousness, like she said. And back then, why wouldn't he have been? He had known he was going to find Sam, and that he would get him off this island and Dick Roman would finally be brought down. Though things had been rough between him and Cas through most of that journey, Dean had never lost sight of that one goal, never stopped believing in it.

Until it had gone all wrong… Starting the moment he had watched Cas fall off that cliff, really.

And maybe the matriarch had always known that would happen to him. She had been the first to explain to him what people became here, but Dean just couldn’t believe it at the time. Looking back, no wonder she had barely tolerated him when they first met... And it made him wonder why she was bothering _now_. (She had also asked him to look after Cas, and it was obvious how well he had did at _that_.) It made Dean shake his head, looking back at her in confusion. “Why did you even decide to help me?” he asked, throat thick. “Especially _now_ , seeing what I’ve become...”

Andrea looked back at him, expression thoughtful. “You _did_ stop the angel from killing us, so it was fair to return the favor," she murmured, and then she looked back at the others, her face growing contemplative. “But perhaps I had forgotten too, and it took you yelling at me to remind me: That I wasn’t just an animal; that I should fight too.”

Dean frowned at that, confused, and Andrea sighed, looking back at him. “When I became matriarch, I only wanted two things,” she said, lips twitching toward a sad smile. “To keep us strong, and make _them_ happy. If we were going to live in this hell, at least we were in it together, and we could make the most of what we had.”

Her eye slid back to her nest, and Dean followed her gaze, looking over the other vampires. “It worked for a while,” she murmured wistfully, Dean seeing a smile cross her face when he glanced over. “Benny had a family again after so long. Sophia may have grown up too fast, but who she's grown into: She could be a matriarch too one day... And Elpis: she found her voice again after her mother died; she found her smile. And the baby has never known any other life but the one he had here, so it was going to be as good as I could make it for him.”

Dean watched as Sophia settled down next to Elpis, and Benny looked over at them worriedly. Andrea sighed then, and when Dean looked over, her smile had slipped. Her face grew sad again, voice quiet. “But I can’t do that anymore: I can’t keep us strong, and they aren’t happy.”

Not with no food. Not with demons after them. Not with the monster out there. Not when they could die in the next few hours. How could they be? Dean thought.

Andrea looked at him once more, and the expression on her face was difficult to read. And then, to Dean's complete surprise, she said, “I’ll do it. I’ll give you the window you need."

Dean gaped. He realized he hadn’t expected her to agree to it, and he was left in shock for a moment: _holy hell, she had agreed to Sam’s plan_. “But I want you to know," she added after a moment, "I’m not doing it for your brother.”

Dean had no idea what to make of that — well, she was doing it for her family, right? — but then he grew even more confused when she said, “I’m doing it because of _you_. You believed in us, and now it’s my turn to do the same for you.”

That was the last thing he had ever expected her to say, and he was left speechless for a moment. She was doing this… because of _him_? But why?

He never got to ask, as she suddenly gave him the second biggest surprise of the day: She called him by his _name._ “Dean,” she said, and Dean stared at her, pretty sure she had never done that before. He was so shocked that he almost missed what she said next: “A word of advice?”

“What?” he asked, bewildered.

“Don’t be afraid of what’s inside you," she said, and at that, he tensed. "Don’t be afraid of everything you may or may _not_ be."

Words, unwanted and unbidden, came back to him: _You’re just meat._ He swallowed painfully, and she shook her head. “Whatever it’s cost you, face it _head on,_ " she continued, "But remember _this_.”

He couldn’t look away from her, and she narrowed her eye again as she said, “You may be nothing now… But that means you’re free to become _who_ you need to be.”


	33. Chapter 33

The island’s bay had meant so much to Dean that when he finally saw it in the flesh, it was almost surreal to look at. It was half-moon in shape, rocky beach stretching for half a mile and flanked at both sides by steep hills topped with trees. The beach itself was littered with fallen trees and kelp, sea foam hissing when waves hit the shore and were dragged back through the many crevices and rocks. In the distance, the slowly darkening gray sky and gray ocean blended together, making the horizon seem endless, and the island itself so very isolated.

This was the bay where Bobby was supposed to come pick them up just after sunset, though Dean couldn’t even guess what time it was now. His watch was long dead, the gray sky gave no clues, and his internal clock had been screwed up since he had stepped foot on the island. All he knew was that he had been on this island for only three days, a fact that was incredibly hard to wrap his mind around.

It had been only three days since he had stood in a cheap motel room in that weird town, studying maps of the island just in case he ended up having to go to bay. (He had never meant to travel on the island itself, after all.) Three days since he had sat at a rickety table writing out letters to Jess and the twins, saying goodbye the only way he felt he could. Three days since he taken those letters and packed them away in a box with his dad’s journal and jacket, his mother’s rings, and the amulet Sam gave him, sealing it all up to send to Jess in California. Three days since he had snuck onto the demon’s boat to make the journey out here, only one goal on his mind as he did: That he had to _kill_ Dick Roman.

Three days ago he had been ready to die for that goal… And now here he was, three days later, his main goal _not_ to die. But with everything they still had to do — when so much was at stake; when so much could go _wrong_ — Dean had a feeling _not dying_ was going to be easier said than done. And gazing out at the bay, that feeling only grew worse, sending chills down his spine the longer he looked.

It had just meant _so much_ once. For so long, the bay had been _everything:_ Their way off the island; his one beacon of hope; the place that had made him believe that he could _save_ Sam and Cas and everyone else.

_You can’t save anyone._

Dean swallowed painfully, and, without thinking, looked down at Cas, whom he was sitting next to. The angel was still lying on the stretcher, head tossing in his sleep, brow furrowing up when he did. “ _Let us help_ ,” he whispered, and then his hand lifted up as if he was reaching for something, dragging down along his bed when it met empty air. His brow creased up more, and he shook his head again as he whispered, “ _Let us help_.”

It hurt to do _,_ but Dean resisted the urge to take Cas’s hand; instead, he shook his head and cursed at himself for getting distracted again. He buried away his unease and worry as he had been doing for a while now, and returned to the task at hand: Making sure Cas was in stable condition before he had to leave him. Dean had snow melting on the cloth for Cas’s forehead for his fever, and had started rechecking on his wounds to make sure everything was clean and dry, and nothing was bleeding. It wasn’t quite enough to distract him from Cas’s muttering, but he managed, focusing on a mental list of things for Benny to tell paramedics when they arrived. As he worked, Castiel shifted under his hands again, whimpering out tiny pleas. “ _Let me move my garrison in,”_ he whispered, head tossing once more. _“We can take it back._ ”

Dean only looked away when he heard Sam finishing up his lesson with Benny. His brother showing the vampire the basics behind the shotgun from where they were sitting in the grass, going over how to load it and check for jams. He had decided to leave the weapon with him, just in case they needed the firepower, and also it was also one of the easiest of their guns to use. That was perfect for a vampire who had never had actually fired one before, or had ever gotten a chance to: Demons were notoriously good at retrieving weapons if any of them fell, Benny had explained. The guns were also loud and smelled weird, both things for vampires and their sensitive senses didn’t care for when their goal was to remain quiet and unscented.

The fact that Benny had no idea how to work the weapon was one of the many things Dean was _also_ avoiding thinking about. If Sam was doing the same, he was hiding it well; he was being very encouraging, nodding when Benny repeated some of his guidelines back to him. “I think you go it,” he said with a smile, and then snapped the shotgun barrel shut before handing it over. As the vampire took it, sliding the strap over his shoulder, Sam’s gaze traveled over to the beach, looking it over. His face grew worried, and he glanced over at the vampire children before turning back to Benny.

“It’s really open, isn’t it?” he asked, voice hiding his concern. Dean could tell he didn’t want to scare the children any (even though one was asleep), his tone always careful around them. “Will you be alright here?”

Dean had wondered about that too, but hadn’t had the chance to ask. The bay was where the meadow met the forest, tall brown grass growing between trees that were more spaced out than the forests further inland. The spot Benny had chosen was square in the middle of a two trees and a lot of grass, and really didn’t seem safe or secure at all. Yet Benny nodded at the question, and managed his first real smile since they had parted ways with Andrea.

“We’ll be alright. There’s plenty of hiding spots in the grass,” he replied, bandaged hand petting the unruly mane that was Drake’s black hair, the toddler still curled up in his coat. But then his eyes narrowed when the wind suddenly blew in, his pointed ears twitching as the grass rustled around them. He hummed thoughtfully, and then turned to Sophia and Elpis, who were sitting near one of the trees. “The wind might be a problem though,” he said, looking between them. “What do you think we should do about that?”

Dean and Sam exchanged confused glances — was he asking because he didn’t know? — but when Sophia turned to Elpis with a questioning look, what Benny was doing became clear. The little vampire poked her head from over the grass, wind batting at her long hair as her nostrils flared, gaze skittering up and down at the beach. When she sat back, she turned to Benny and Sophia, grinning excitedly. “What about the kelp?” she said. “It’s smelly!”

“You’re right. I don’t think anyone could smell us if _we_ smell like kelp,” Benny agreed with a proud smile, and then nodded his head out toward the beach. “Why don’t you and Sophia go gather some up for all of us?”

Elpis looked up at Sophia, whose lips slid into the smallest of smiles before she reached up to ruffle the younger vampire’s hair. “Come on, _kotenok._ Let us see who can gather more, _”_ she challenged, and Elpis bobbed in place excitedly, before both weaved their way through the grass to the beach. Against the rocks, they were almost perfectly camouflaged, just blurs of movements as they darted from rock to rock to pick up the kelp.

“Using games to teach them. Smart,” Sam murmured quietly, while Dean’s nose wrinkled. (It was weird to think that in order to hide from the demons, the vampires were going to drape themselves in kelp to mask their scents. And when it smelled awful to him, what did it smell like to them?)

Benny’s proud smile faded for a more wistful one, and he let out a soft sigh. “That was Andrea’s idea,” he said, as he watched the others bound around the beach. Drake let out the tiniest hiccup against his chest, and Benny started petting his hair again. “She didn’t want fear to be their only teacher, and thought that if there were ever a time we weren’t around, maybe they’d—”

He trailed off, but what he didn’t say hung in the air: _Maybe they’d survive without them_. It was a thought that made Dean tense up, while Sam grimaced and look away. It also made Benny’s smile disappear completely, and the misery he hadn’t really been able to hide since they had parted ways with Andrea returned. His lips pursed as his brow furrowed, and the sigh that left his mouth shuddered the entire way. When he then pushed to his feet, he couldn’t look at them, muttering gruffly, “Excuse me for a moment.”

Dean’s heart sank a little as Benny made his retreat; out of all the vampires, he knew the separation had hit him the hardest. Not that Andrea hadn’t had her troubles leaving her nest, as well — she wasn’t a very expressive woman, but Dean had seen the flashes of grief on her face as she had told them her decision. When they had come in one-by-one to hug her goodbye, she had curled her arms around them tightly, squeezing her eye shut tight to hide the tears there.

But before that, Andrea had to take Benny aside to talk to him, a conversation that hadn’t gone well. It was obvious Benny didn’t like the plan, and whatever she said to try to convince him only made him pace from side-to-side, body tense in ways that looked painful. He had had kept shaking his head as she talked and refused to look at her, until she had grasped his face and made him. At that, his shoulders finally slumped in defeat and he had nodded in agreement; when he did, she had cupped his cheeks and drawn him in for a slow kiss.

It was at that point that Dean had had looked away, his heart beat speeding up a little as he had glanced down at Cas. But just as quickly he had looked away from him when a thought he didn’t want to have crossed his mind, and he forced himself to think about _anything_ else.

It hadn’t really worked — it had been in the back of his mind since they had left Andrea behind and headed for the bay. And it came back again as he watched Benny greet his family when they darted up to him, strands of kelp dangling from their arms. The anguish on his face disappeared when he saw them, but it was obvious by his weak smile that his thoughts were still on the woman Sam and Dean had sent off on a near-suicide mission.

“God,” Sam breathed sadly, a statement Dean wholeheartedly agreed with.

“Yeah,” he murmured. But with that, however, also came a wave of guilt. He and Sam might have both left Andrea to face an army of demons on her own, but there had only been one person that had convinced her to do it in the first place. And, in Dean’s opinion, it was for the _worst_ of reasons.

 _“I’m doing it because of_ you _. You believed in us, and now it’s my turn to do the same for you.”_

Dean twitched, and instinctively looked toward Cas again, his hand already reaching for the angel’s. But he stopped himself before he did, hand hanging stupidly in the air as he swallowed painfully once more and watched Cas twist in his sleep again. “ _Hold the line,”_ the angel mumbled, eyes roving under his eyelids. _“Do not let them through.”_

With Cas lost in his dreams, Dean didn’t want to accidentally wake him up (or that was what he was telling himself anyway). The angel had started vividly dreaming not long after they moved out, mumbling in Enochian or oddball things like, “ _I’ll interrogate the cat_.” Dean had had no idea what to make that, but it wasn’t long before Cas started talking about things he _did_ know about, and _how_. _Lilith forces are in full retreat,_ the angel began to whisper, brow creasing up as he did, _Azazel’s army is pinned down in Samhein's Peak._

He had started dreaming about the war, and after forgetting so much, it seemed nice that Cas could relive his greatest battles, Dean thought. He didn’t really want to take that away from him by waking him up either; leaving Cas to his memories would be better, wouldn’t it? He needed his rest, and Dean _needing_ to see his blue eyes and hear his voice once more was at most trivial and at worst, completely _selfish_ …

Even though he might never see Cas alive again.

“Dean.”

He jumped when he heard Sam’s voice; thankfully, his brother wasn’t looking at him when he turned to him. Sam’s eyes were on Cas instead, expression troubled as he murmured, “Are you almost ready? We… We should get going soon.”

Dean’s heart leapt right into his throat at that.

Was he ready?

It was such a simple question, with such a complicated answer… and in it, everything Dean had been _not_ to think about for what seemed like forever now. Since Andrea had agreed to the plan really, which was when the sheer enormity of what they were going to do had hit Dean square in the face. (Since he had watched two lovers kiss too, and then had to look anywhere but Cas.)

 _Was_ he ready? Was he ready to leave the others behind? Was he ready to take their one shot at escaping this island? Because this was _it._ This was the end. _Everything_ was riding on this one plan: The lives of Cas and Sam and Jess and the twins and Benny and Andrea and the vampire children. This was their only chance of getting off the island, and they _had_ to succeed…

But what if they couldn’t do this? Dean thought. What if they failed? What if the demons found them before they ever made it to Roman’s lodge? What if Andrea couldn’t distract the demons for very long? What if the demons found Cas and Benny and the kids first? What if the _monster_ found them instead? What if they all died? Sam and Cas and Jess and the twins and the vampires — all dead, dead, _dead_.

All because of _Dean_.

(No, Dean thought. He was _not_ ready.)

It might have broke something in him not to show that to Sam, however. To just swallow around the lump in his throat, and keep his voice steady as he croaked out, “Yeah, I need another minute or two. I… I-I have to finish up Cas’s exam.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but the way Sam’s eyes flicked toward Cas told Dean that his brother saw that excuse for what it was. Thankfully, didn’t say anything; only nodded, and then managed a grin as he joked, “I’ll go ask the vampirs about the kelp thing. Maybe it’d be smart to mask our scents too, you know?”

It wasn’t exactly subtle what Sam was trying to do, but Dean didn’t even know if he was grateful for that or not. Mostly because it left him alone with all the thoughts he was desperately not trying to think about, and no way to distract himself from them anymore. His brother wouldn’t see him shaking at the very least, resisting the urge to reach for Cas again, desperate for the comfort.

He had to look away from the angel again, who he was pretty sure was reaching for him back everytime he mumbled something, wanting that comfort as well. It physically ached not to do it, for himself or for Cas, but the wave of guilt that hit Dean when he thought about it was just as bad. Desperate for something to distract him, he looked around again, for _anything_ that would keep him from thinking about this was all going to go wrong, how everyone was going to _die—_

_Don’t be afraid._

Dean tensed. His eyes settled on the bay again, watching the waves roll in again as Andrea’s words went through his head again. They weren’t exactly comforting as her belief in him had initially been (before he freaked out about the implications), but for some reason, they calmed him down. _Don’t be afraid of what’s inside you._

But he was afraid of it, he thought. No, he was _terrified_ of it. He wasn’t scared about _what_ they had to do; he would do what needed to be done, no matter what that was. No, what he was afraid of was everything falling apart, because of _him_. Hell, the reason they had to do any of this was because of him! Yet Andrea had decided to do this for him anyway. (Had she not realized what happened to the _last_ person who had believed in him?) And Sam wanted him at his back, after what he had done to Jess and the twins...

What was he but a _nothing,_ anyway? Just a piece of _meat_ that couldn’t save anyone?

And that was what truly scared him, Dean had to admit. That after he had failed everyone in so many ways — and with the bay a stark reminder of how much — he was afraid of doing that here and now. This was their _only_ chance of surviving, and here he was, desperately wishing that he wasn’t involved in it so they at least had a chance at succeeding. Or, at the very least, he wished Cas would wake up and tell him everything would be okay, that he _could_ do this. If Cas said it, Dean would believe him; Dean had _always_ believed him...

_Don’t be afraid of everything you may or may not be._

The wind bit at his skin; his knee throbbed angrily, possibly because he had his hand gripped into it. He wasn’t a savior, that was for sure, he thought. Maybe he should have never thought he was either; he hadn’t even known what they were up against when he had declared he could save everyone. He hadn’t even come to this island to help anyone either: He had come to find out what happened to Sam; to make up for breaking Jess’s heart. He had been so _selfish_ , so caught up in his own pain that he failed to realize the danger… Just as he failed to realize the danger here. And failing to realize that was what led them all here to begin with...

God, why did anyone want him around after everything? And when he had barely been able to protect himself, when he hadn’t even known what they were facing, why had people even believed in him? Why had Cas followed him? Why was Andrea doing this for him? Why did Sam trust him? It didn’t make _sense_.

Yet, despite it all, he still wanted to fix this somehow. Even though he was still so scared of failing, still terrified that nothing he’d do would _matter._ That he’d only screw it all up, and get everyone killed. He was trying not to be afraid, but—

 _You may be nothing now… But that means you’re free to become_ who _you need to be._

At that thought, Dean hesitated, fears and insecurities and doubts briefly fading away as those words went through his head again and again. He was nothing now, yet if he could get past his fears, he was free to become who he needed to be...

But _who_ did he need to be?

He wasn’t sure who he had been _before_ all this, especially after Sam disappeared. He could barely even remember the person he was from this _morning_ , when he had been convinced he and Cas could do anything together. Yet Cas and Andrea had both seen something in him even before then, hadn’t they? That was what the matriarch had said: That he had been full of conviction and hope and righteousness. It was why Cas had believed in him and protected him; why Andrea chosen to believe in him, too.

Though Dean barely remembered what hope _was_ — or what it was like to actually believe he could save everyone — he did remember what else used to believe: That he was willing to do _anything_ for his family, even if it killed him. Because his life didn’t matter... Except he had been scared of that thought at the same time. Deep down, he had been afraid that it was true, that his life wasn’t worth anything. Deep down, he had been scared of _dying_.

But if he could get past his fear, face it head on… maybe he could become who he needed to be.

And maybe that person was someone who _would_ gladly die if it meant getting everyone home and safe.

That thought made Dean’s heart start to pound, wondering if that was the answer. But as he realized what that meant, it also had him tensing up, and before he could stop himself, his eyes were sliding back down to Cas.

Ever since he had watched Benny and Andrea kiss, he had been avoiding looking at Cas unless he had to. It wasn’t just because he had felt guilty for wishing Cas would wake up and tell him everything would be okay — Dean had also been afraid that once he looked at Cas, he wouldn’t be able to stop… Which was the same reason he hadn’t wanted to touch him, either.

(Maybe the question Sam should have asked was, “Are you ready to leave Cas?”)

But already, Dean could feel himself slowly become transfixed as he looked at the angel, his hand slowly reaching out to touch his cheek. Castiel continued to mumble in his sleep, though his head did lean toward his touch, lips brushing against palm. Dean hardly noticed though, eyes taking in the curve of the angel’s chin, and the split on his chapped lips. Water from the rag on his head had caused his feathers of his head to stick up in every direction, and it reminded Dean of their conversation about angel hair products. And that lead him to thinking about the way Cas’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled, or the way he huffed through his nose when he was amused. There was the way he cocked his head when Dean had said something that confused him, and how his wings had fluttered and ruffled up in excitement when they had found food.

And there were other things: The night before when they had kissed, gentle but also hungry, and so, so _good_. There had been each shiver and gasp he had wrenched out of Cas, the way his pupils had grown so large, irises darkening into several shades of dark blue. The feel of his heated skin and feathers, the ways his wings spread out as Dean ran his hands through them; how he had gasped when Dean had kissed his scars. The way he had rocked against Dean, pleading his name over and over.

Those memories washed over Dean as he watched his fingers trace down Cas’s cheek down to his neck, feeling his pulse under his pale skin. It was still faint, and nowhere near as strong as when Dean had splayed his hand against Cas’s chest and felt his heart pounding underneath flushed skin. His heart beat far faster than a human’s, which was something about angels that Dean hadn’t known about and had been fascinated by. It was that, and his skin that was so _warm_ ; his feathers that smelled like apple pie, the way they rippled under his touch and gleamed with blue hues in the firelight. So many differences between them and Dean had wanted to learn them all.

_"If you wanna’ get a hamburger, catch up on some movies, I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted.”_

_“I do want that, Dean.”_

But that was only a small part of what he had wanted. He wanted to see Cas smile like he had never forgotten how to, and hear him laugh for real, maybe even at one of his jokes. He wanted to watch Cas eat his first burger after so many years, _watch_ him watch a movie, compare cars, see his home, maybe more if the angel wanted.

He wanted to see Castiel awake, and healthy and happy and whole, and this island only a bad memory for him.

He wanted Cas in his arms again, and that promise in his eyes, that everything would be _okay_.

_Cas’s gaze roved over Dean’s face before he reached out, fingers touching his cheek. “You have me,” he whispered, and Dean couldn’t look away._

Dean swallowed again. He almost couldn’t look away here and now, though he could feel tears starting to prick his eyes. It hadn’t even been a dream, barely a promise — him and Cas, seeing where they went together — but Dean hadn’t even known _how much_ he wanted it until right that moment. And he had only just realized what it would mean to never have it.

_Whatever it costs you..._

But there was one thing Dean wanted more than that however; what he had always wanted, from the very beginning. He wanted to get Cas back to his family, and if that meant giving up a dream...

He could be the person Cas had nearly died to protect. He could be who Andrea believed in. He could be whoever Sam needed him to be. Maybe he couldn’t save anyone; maybe he had never been meant to, but he at least could be what they needed.

No matter the cost.

Still, that didn’t make trying to look away from Cas any easier; in fact, it made it almost impossible. Dean could feel his hand shaking as he reached up and cupped Cas’s cheek again, his thumb tracing the angel’s lips. As he did, his mind flashed back to every moment they had had together.

To the first real conversation they ever had...

 _Castiel’s going comically wide, and his gaze skittering away. “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” he mumbled, and that, along with his expression, had Dean laughing. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Fuck, Castiel’s_ face. _Who knew angels would be embarrassed about porn?_

When he had told Cas all those terrible jokes...

_Cas’s thoughtful frown as he thought over Dean’s knock-knock joke, before he said “Is that the one with the oranges?” And then his wings fluttering in surprise as Dean burst out laughing._

The first time he had ever seen Cas smile (even though it had only been in his eyes)...

_His eyes crinkling up, expression gentle, relieved and maybe even a little hopeful... and absolutely beautiful._

The way they had worked together...

_“Let us strike them, Dean," Cas declared, and Dean couldn't look away from him. "Let us show them what an angel is capable of; what a human is capable of. Let's show them why they should fear us.”_

_His sword slid into his hand and his wings lifted off his back, and Dean could almost see Castiel’s silver-and-blue armor and great black wings again. And, at that moment, Dean knew he would have followed him anywhere._

And so much more, the good, the wonderful, the bad and the awful moments Dean wished he could have a thousand more of. This was the angel who had changed his life — who had seen a scared thirteen-year-old boy afraid of dying and _saved_ him — and someone Dean might have been in love since they met all those years ago. The angel who given up everything to protect him on this island, and the reason Dean had even found his brother in the first place. He was the angel who had given Dean something to dream about (a life apart from his guilt and shame and regret); who made him feel like he was _worth_ something...

_Cas curled up in his lap, body still trembling with pleasure. Cupping Dean’s face and pressing their lips together, the kiss and his eyes saying something Dean almost couldn’t believe._

_I want to live for you_.

At that, Dean hesitated, thumb pausing from where it was brushing Cas’s lips. His stomach sank slowly, a cold feeling gripping his heart. No, he didn’t want that, he thought. Cas _couldn’t_ want that.

He had told Cas to find something to live for, but had never expected it would be for _him_. And though Dean hadn’t really known what it meant, it had made him feel almost special; worth something. But now it tugged at Dean’s insecurities — that Cas was going to die, all because of _him;_ how could he live for someone like _that?_ — but also his fears.

He remembered how hurt Cas had been at the thought of almost killing Dean; how wrecked he was when he had nearly let the vampires eat him. That had been on top of his guilt at becoming an animal in the first place, and forgetting about his family, even his own name. Until he could get past that guilt that would otherwise consume him, he needed something to live for…

But if Dean didn’t make it...

 _No,_ he thought. He bent down then, hand sliding up to brush Cas’s wet hairlike feathers away from his brow. Suddenly, he wanted Cas awake; _needed_ Cas awake. “Cas,” he whispered urgently, and the angel stirred against his touch again. “ _Cas_.”

 _“Let us take it back,”_ Cas whispered once more, but when Dean called his name again, he stirred, brow creasing. Then his eyes slowly fluttered open, and he shifted his head to look up at Dean. At the sight of his blue eyes searching his face, Dean felt his heart throb, and he almost forgot what he needed to say. But he managed to push that thought away, hard as it was; Cas was only half-awake and already his eyes were slipping closed again.

“Cas, wake up. Wake up. You have to do something for me, okay?” Dean pressed, and Cas opened his eyes again.

“Okay,” he whispered, and Dean tried to hold back the tears that wanted to prick his eyes.

“You… You have to _live_ , Cas.”

Cas’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Dean swallowed again, and then leaned down to press his lips to Cas’s brow. It was the only kiss he could allow himself, and then pulled back to then push their foreheads together, whispering, “Just live.”

“Okay,” Cas whispered in reply, eyes sliding closed again. “Okay.”

_An angel blade in his neck, blood trickling free. Then a voice, rough like it hadn’t been used in years._

_“Save me? You can… save me?”_

* * *

As Dean walked away from Cas, the hole left inside him was similar to the feeling he had when he decided not to feel anything for a while. In a way it made things easier: With that weight gone, it helped him focus completely on what they had to do next. But he was also aware that the emptiness he felt this time around was much different, deeper and wider than the one before had been. There was no fearing falling inside of it, at the very least… Maybe because he couldn’t exactly fall when it was all he was already at the bottom of the hole.

After picking up his rifle, Dean limped over to where his brother was, leaning against a tree and staring out at the bay. Sam had never made it to the vampires it seemed — they were out on the beach still, Benny helping the others drape kelp over each other. Sam instead looked lost in thought, playing with the tarnished gold that was his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger over and over again. When Dean noticed that, he paused: It was something their father had used to do, Dad always toying with _his_ ring when the nights were too long and the bottle wasn’t enough to get him through it.

He had always wondered about those nights, why they kept Dad up like they did… And right then he understood, in a way he never had before. His dad had gone to war for his mom, the love of his life, and Dean had to wonder how their old man would feel to see his sons doing the same… Except they were facing a monster along with the demons.

Maybe none of them could ever escape the war, like their dad hadn’t been able to even after it was long over.

Those weren’t exactly comforting thoughts, and Dean pushed them aside. He looked to his brother instead, muttering his name, which made Sam start, his hands falling as he glanced at him. Dean nodded at him, shouldering his rifle as he did. “I’m ready.”

“Oh,” Sam said, blinking twice. He looked a little out of it, and he shook his head slightly. “R-Right.”

That wasn’t the reaction Dean had expected, and he frowned, confused. “Sammy?” he asked, the rest of the question implied: _What’s wrong?_ It made Sam duck his head and glance away, looking over to where Cas was. At that, Dean tensed — he didn’t want Sam to ask him anything about Cas, he _really_ didn’t — but then Sam turned away. He looked out at the bay again, and it was hard to read his expression then: uncomfortable, maybe. Nervous.

“I-I was just thinking…” he began slowly, starting to play with his ring again. “I should have done this sooner. It shouldn’t have come to this.”

It wasn’t really a surprise that Sam had been thinking along the same lines as him, and Dean couldn’t help but agree with him (albeit for much different reasons). His brother sighed sadly then, and started shaking his head. “I don’t know if I could have done what you’ve done though.”

Sam was looking at the vampires as he said that, and Dean tensed. What did that mean? Why would Sam want to do anything like _him_? “What?” he asked, confused.

“Getting everyone to fight together like this,” Sam murmured as he looked back at him. The wind tugged at his hair, pushing it away from his dirt-streaked face and tired hazel eyes. “Even if I had tried… I don’t think I would have been able to convince them to do it.”

That had Dean frowning again, instinctively wanting to deny that. If anything, he had convinced everyone out of desperation… But that really didn’t explain why everyone _believed_ in him. And that was a thought that still made him uncomfortable even now, and he shook his head. “They would have, Sam,” he protested with another frown. “I know you could have convinced them.”

“Maybe,” Sam murmured, not sounding very convinced. He looked away from him again, out toward the bay once more. “You’ve always been able to bring people together in a way I’ve been able to. I wish I had tried, though. Maybe if I had...”

Sam trailed off, and then Dean could see it. His brother was worried, like Dean had been. _Scared_ , like Dean had been. That they wouldn’t be able to to do this; that they’d fail.And then his brother looked at him, eyes wet. “I-I didn’t want any of you to die for this, Dean. I don’t want any of you to die for this, Dean. You, Jess, Mary, Joan, Bobby, C-Castiel, any of the others. N-Not because of—”

Dean winced. He knew Sam’s pain and guilt and he knew it well. And while Sam wasn’t eight-years-old anymore, when hugs from his big brother could make him feel safe again, that didn’t stop Dean then from stepping in and pulling him into one. His brother let out a sound that might have been a whimper, before he was wrapping his arms tightly against him. “What if we can’t do this, Dean?” he whispered against his shoulder, trembling. “What if—”

“It’ll be okay, Sammy,” Dean reassured, and Sam let out another mournful sound. Dean’s eyes went out to the bay again, whispers of _don’t be afraid_ filling his mind again. “You _can_ do this. I’ll watch out for you, and make sure you do.”

 _Whatever it costs_.

That seemed to comfort Sam as he pulled away, reaching up to press his fingers against his eyes. “I know, Dean, I know, you’ve always watched out for me,” he muttered, and then his eyes slid away, over to Cas again. He looked remorseful, sad; Dean couldn’t figure out why, but did get a chance to ask as Sam then let out another slow breath. He pursed his lips, fists clenching at his side before he looked back at Dean.

“We can do this,” he said, determined, and for a moment, Dean couldn’t help but just look at him. It was a sight he hadn’t seen in what seemed like forever: His baby brother — smart, brave and capable of _anything_. He might have faltered, he might have let the monster get to him, but here he was, rising up again. “We _will_ do this. We’ll stop Roman. We’ll get ourselves home. You. Castiel. _Everyone_.”

“You will,” Dean murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. Sam’s lips twitched toward one too, before he let out a laugh, head ducking shyly.

“You know, that’s the first time I’ve believed that in a _long_ time,” he said, and when he looked back, tears were in his eyes again, lips trembling. His voice grew thick, and he managed a real smile this time. “T-Thanks. Thanks for making me believe that again, Dean.”

Dean started in surprise, not expecting that. It also tugged a little at the things he had thought he had buried, and he pushed it down again, reminding himself not to be afraid. While he was doing that, he almost didn’t notice when Sam’s smile slipped from his face, his eyes on the vampires again. When he noticed, Dean followed his gaze instinctively, and looked over at them too.

The children had ducked back into the grass, but Benny was standing tall and tense, ears up high. His eyes were wide, _scared,_ and it didn’t take long to figure out why when Dean heard it too.

It was faint, but growing closer: Barks. Shouts.

 _No,_ he thought, feeling himself start to shake. He looked out at the forest as a low, long howl rose up from it, echoing over the distance.

The demons had found them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kotenok" is Russian for "kitten."


	34. Chapter 34

_You can't save anyone, Dean._

As he looked out at the forest, listening to the sounds of demons and dogs grow closer and closer, Dean felt like he was in the ocean again. He was numb, paralyzed, like freezing water had stabbed his skin like a thousand needles again and was now dragging him down into its dark depths. It left him unable to do anything else but just stare and realize how everyone of his fears had come true.

_What if they failed? What if the demons found them before they ever made it to Roman’s lodge? What if Andrea couldn’t distract the demons for very long? What if the demons found Cas and Benny and the kids first? What if the monster found them instead? What if they all died?_

“Are they headed toward us? Do they know we’re here?! How did they find us—” Dean could hear Sam asking Benny, the fear in his voice. He didn’t hear the vampire’s reply though; maybe it was lost in a booming bark of a hellhound, or the Benny’s silence was the only one they needed. The answer was obvious, and in the long run, it didn’t matter _how_ the demons had found them either. All that mattered was that they were _here,_ heavily armed, with their dogs. And they _were_ coming for them.

And that meant Andrea was probably dead — and she had said this could all go wrong, hadn’t she? She had said that the demons and the monster might find them first — and their tiny little group was in trouble _._ They were out on the beach with barely any hiding spaces to speak off (how long could grass possibly hide them anyway?), and no way they could fight the demons with any hope of winning. And if the monster was with them...

Dean swallowed painfully, feeling like he was sinking now. Had Sam’s plan been for nothing? he wondered then. Had Andrea’s sacrifice had been pointless? Was their one-and-only chance to escape gone just like that? They had come this far, survived this much… Did that matter for anything?

His eyes moved then, over to Cas, the angel still mumbling away in his sleep. Was this _it_? Dean thought, feeling like this was drowning now. Was _this_ how they were going to die?

“We _have_ to get out of here,” Sam hissed, sounding desperate now. It made Dean slowly look over, seeing Sam was staring out at the forest too. When his brother turned back to him and Benny, his eyes were wide, frantic. “We’re too exposed here. We need to get somewhere safe.”

“Where’s that at?” Benny asked, voice raw and tired. When Dean looked over at him, he could see the vampire’s eyes were red-rimmed and wet, lips slightly trembling. Still, he was trying to soothe a whimpering Drake, petting his wild hair while the toddler wiggled away in Benny’s jacket. The boy wasn’t the only vampire child scared; when Dean glanced down at the others in the grass, he saw the fear on the girls’ faces. He turned back when Benny croaked out, “How do we get there without them tracking us down?”

As if answering him, one of the distant hellhounds howled, making Dean’s heart spike and hand go for his rifle. Sam only flinched, his eyes flickering from side-to-side, forming a plan as fast as he could think it up. “Demons are practically blind to what they can’t smell, right?” he said then with a snap of his fingers, and then looked between them again. “We can use the kelp — coat our scents. Then we’ll head for the meadow, and from there, we’ll go for Roman’s base. All of us. We’ll follow the river.”

Would that work? Dean wondered, feeling the tiniest stirring of hope as he glanced back at Benny. The vampire really didn’t look all that convinced though; he just looked exhausted, like all the fight had been drained from him, and he was just standing just because. The grief on his face grew more prominent when he looked down at Sophia and Elpis, the girls exchanging worried glances. “And if the daemons find us before we get there?” he asked then, eyes lifting back to Sam’s. “What then?”

Sam’s mouth clicked shut at that, and he stared at Benny for a long moment before he glanced away. An uncomfortable and uncertain look crossed his face, and Dean grew confused, not knowing why. (Maybe Sam _didn’t_ think they could do this?) But then his brother squeezed his eyes shut, lips pursing, before he nodded once; he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, because when he turned back, his face was set in grim determination.

“Then we’ll push the daemons back. We’ll fight them.” Sam’s grip tightened on his rifle, and then his eyes narrowed. “And I’ll kill them _all_ if I have to.”

It took Dean a moment, but he realized how big that was for his brother. Knowing Sam, he would have wanted to spare the daemon’s lives if he could; only kill them in self-defense if there was no other choice. But it was also more than that: Sam was saying he’d fight for _them_ … the people he had given up on, should have fought for all along...

His brother looked at him then, that grim determination never leaving his eyes. “Dean?” he asked, and Dean blinked in surprise. “Are you with me?”

Dean’s heart leapt; Sam needed his help with this new plan, and he had promised himself he’d be whatever his brother needed him to be. He nodded quickly, and Sam’s lips twitched toward a smile before he turned to Benny.

The question wasn’t asked; it didn’t need to be. Benny’s lips pursed as he stared at Sam, before he glanced down at the children again. The grief still warred on his face, but when Elpis grasped his free hand, and Sophia touched his arm, it seemed to give him strength he needed. He let out one long shuddering breath, before he looked back up at them. The same grim determination filled his eyes too, and he nodded once.

“I won’t let Andrea’s sacrifice be meaningless,” he murmured quietly.

Sam’s lips twitched again, this time toward a grimace, before he started ushering them over. “We need to move _now_ then. Dean, prep Castiel the best you can. We can’t keep the stretcher; it’ll slow us down. Sophia, is it? Can you get us some more kelp? And Benny, you might have to carry Castiel; Dean and I need our hands free—”

While Benny fished Drake out of his jacket to hand to Sophia (who put him in her own puffy vest), Dean moved to do as told, hobbling over to Cas’s side. He sucked in a deep breath as he did, hoping it would help calm that sinking feeling still in his stomach. Sam was right, he told himself, absently glancing toward the trees when he heard another demon shout in the distance. They weren’t done yet — they could _still_ do this. If they could get to the meadow, they’d lose the demons, and from there...

Sophia suddenly let out a warning shout, and it was only then that Dean noticed the dark shapes moving between the trees in front of him.

That was the only view he got before a demon stepped out from behind a trunk and aimed his rifle right at him.

* * *

Dean remembered yelling something to the others. _Gun!_ maybe _. Demon!_ most likely. Either way, he had never thrown himself to the ground so fast, the air knocked out of him when he hit dirt.

It was not a moment too soon though, bullets flying through the air above him and tearing into a tree trunk behind him. Pulverized wood flew into the air, and thankfully that was it, the others having ducked and taken cover behind the rocks where Cas was.

Dean had to look them quickly over just to make sure they were okay, eyes shooting first to Sam, his brother’s back against the rock, wide-eyed with his gun against his chest. Sophia was next to him, arms encircled around Drake in her vest, while Benny had curled around Elpis, body acting a shield. Cas was the only one lying unawares, tossing fitfully in his sleep still.

They were alright, but wouldn’t be for long. Through the grass, Dean could the demon gesturing two others to move up, the second and third darting to opposite trees. They would try to pin them in place then, Dean realized. Two of them would keep their group from moving away from the rocks with a constant barrage of suppression fire. While they did that, the third could circle around and finish them off.

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought. They had to get the others out before they _were_ trapped, and they had to do it quickly. For that, they could use the demons’ own tactics against them, and Dean quickly looked back at Sam to tell him. As another wave of bullets flew over them, he communicated to Sam using hand signals, explaining what they needed to do with a quick flick of his fingers. His brother gave a quick jerk of his head in understanding when he finished, and then tapped at Benny to whisper the same to him. The vampire looked at both of them in confusion and surprise, but nodded, hand reaching for Elpis’s and Sophia’s.

They were ready then. _On the count of three,_ Dean said with his fingers. Through the grass, he could see one of the demons moving closer. _One, two—_

“Three!” Sam yelled as he swung around the rock, and started firing. From the ground, Dean joined him, shooting through the grass and catching the demon moving between the trees dead in the center. The other demons let out yells and ducked back behind the trees, Sam adjusting his aim to keep them pinned down. Dean focused on the other one, only glancing away long enough to see Benny and the others dart away into the grass, ducking low to avoid being seen.

Dean’s heart lifted at, but that still left Sam and Cas. In between another exchange of bullets with the demons, he yelled at his brother, “Sammy! Get Cas and go!”

Sam dove for Cas, going for the straps at his legs first. The demon he had been keeping pinned down peered around the tree at the lull, but Dean was on him, firing another wave of bullets at him. He missed, barely, the demon ducking back behind the tree with a loud curse. Dean’s eyes swept from him to the other demon, but he was at an angle he couldn’t hit him unless he moved to a better position. The demon had dragged his fallen comrade over to his side — Dean could see injured demon was cursing and trying to stop the blood that was slowing staining his jacket — and was shouting something, Dean hearing just snippets of it over the gunfire. “ _My position... Vampires with them, the angel—”_

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought again. He was telling the other demons where they were.

They had to move _now._ Sam cried his name and Dean looked back at him, seeing that brother had Cas over his shoulder again, their supply bag hanging off his arm. (Dean got a glimpse of Cas’s face scrunched up in pain, no in doubt hurting from being jostled around again.) His brother needed covering fire so he could make his own run for it, and Dean paused from shooting long enough to scramble to his feet. His knee buckled when he did, and he fell against the rocks where Sam was, a stabbing pain streaking up his leg. But he couldn’t worry about it, noticing the demons twisting around the trees, rifles up. Dean turned to Sam and yelled, _“Sammy, run!”_

His brother did, and Dean snapped his rifle up to start firing again. As the demons went for cover again, he shoved himself off the rock, leg buckling again but holding his weight while he slowly backed over toward the grass himself. He kept up his fire, waiting for the best moment when he could take off before the demons realized he had stopped firing, and they came after him. He started a mental countdown in his head, sucking in deep breaths as he prepared himself to start running, knowing his leg would _not_ like it...

Still, he counted. _One… Two… Three..._

From the trees off to Dean’s side, something dark and _massive_ flew onto the beach, skidding on the rocks when it landed. Dean looked over without thinking, and then his heart dropped straight to his stomach when he realized what it was. The hellhound turned toward him, white fangs revealed when it let out a booming bark, red eyes flashing in the ever-darkening sky.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, as the dog hackles raised, and then it started running straight toward him.

There was no outrunning a hellhound, but that didn’t mean Dean didn’t try. And run he did, plunging through the grass, rifle bouncing against his side and aching ribs, knee so stiff he could barely bend it but he made it anyway. He could hear the demons behind him shouting, bullets pinging off rocks and tearing into the grass as he ran through it. They stopped a moment later, and it was clear why: Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw the hellhound right on his heel, getting closer, closer, _closer_ —

There was a tree ahead of him; Dean grabbed it without thinking and used it to swing around to the side. Sam’s evasive trick worked though (Dean realizing a heartbeat later that was what it was): The hellhound flew past him and Dean took off for the beach this time, aiming for a jutting rock. He hit it and shoved off just as the hellhound caught up to him again, the dog slamming into the rock with thump. Dean didn’t stop to look though, running again down the beach now, ocean waves crashing against the surf and sending spray high into the air. The hellhound let out a vicious bark from behind him, giving chase again.

There were no traps to stop the dog this time, but then Dean saw Sam on the beach ahead of him. He was yelling his name and waving his hand, motioning at Dean to move to the side, before he lifted his rifle up. With a curse, Dean _threw_ himself to the side, hitting the rocks and knocking the air out of him again. Sam opened fire right as he did, the hellhound going to fast to dodge and running right into the hail of bullets.

Nothing short of a close-range shotgun blast or a well-placed bullet from a high-caliber rifle could take a hellhound down in one go. But Sam did a damn good job of trying to prove that wrong, firing bullet after bullet into the dog, little puffs of blood mist filling the air along with the hellhound’s yips of pain. He stopped firing when the hellhound tripped, its body hitting the ground and sliding along until it came to a stop near Sam’s feet.

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought again from where he was lying on the rocks, his heart pounding away in his chest. That had been close, _too_ close, he thought as he stared at the dog, half-afraid it would get up again. (It wasn’t dead yet either, whimpering away on the ground while blood pooled around it.) That sinking sensation came back as he did, leaving him feeling like he couldn’t breathe. If Sam _hadn’t_ been there—

He only looked away when Sam yelled his name again, his brother at his side and grabbing his arm. “Dean, come on, come on, ” he breathed, pulling and tugging, while Dean’s ribs protested angrily. But he couldn’t even register it, a stab of panic going through him when he realized that Sam was alone.

“The others? Cas?!” he asked Sam desperately, looking around for them. Where were they?

“Over there,” Sam reassured with a bob of his head toward them, and Dean’s eyes flicked over in that direction. That was he saw them, or at least the top of Sophia’s head poking out from what looked like a hole in the ground on the beach. Benny emerged from it a moment later, darting up the slope to solid ground. He looked over them, while Sam muttered, “He took Castiel from me so I could come help you.”

Then Cas had to be in that hole thing (or whatever it was) with the children, Dean thought, and a wave of relief coursed through his veins. Sam tugged on him again, and though his ribs and knee fought it, Dean pushed to get himself up too. “We need to move fast, Dean. Before the daemons pin us down again,” Sam said breathlessly as he heaved Dean to his feet, and then a thread of panic filled his voice, “Or another hellhound finds us.”

That was going to be easier said than done. They both looked over when they heard a shout, and saw the demons from earlier coming up the beach toward them. As Dean cursed and reached for his rifle, Sam grabbed his too and then looked behind him. “Benny!” he yelled, “Get the children and— _Benny! Watch out!”_

Confused, Dean twisted around in time to see a second hellhound burst from the forest. It landed, and then bounded up, flying right at Benny.

Unlike them however, the vampire never saw it coming.

* * *

A lot happened in the handful of seconds where the hellhound tackled Benny and sent them both back into the hole, and Dean had run over to shoot at it. Over the sounds of screaming children and the demons shooting at them, he could hear the dog: the snap of its jaws, the way its claws dragged against the rocks, the long wet growl that was accompanied by Benny’s scream of pain. It had Dean’s heart pounding as he leapt into the hole — which was actually a long, wide crevice in the rocks — seeing the hellhound on top of the vampire, shaking its head back-and-forth rapidly like it had a chew toy.

Except the chew toy in this case looked to be Benny’s arm, and Dean only had time for the swiftest of prayers that he didn’t hit the vampire with a stray bullet, before he had opened fire on the hellhound.

Distance and plenty of bullets were what brought down hellhounds; turned out Dean had neither. He got a volley in before his gun clicked empty, and the bullets he had shot hadn’t been enough to take the dog down. When it whipped around on him, there was no room to maneuver inside the crevice; as Dean scrambled for his pistol tucked away in his waistband, the dog snarled and leapt toward him.

 _Shit,_ was all Dean could really think. (Why was it always _hellhounds,_ though?)

There was a blur of movement from his side, and Dean didn’t know what it was that hit the dog’s side, sending it stumbling into the wall. It became clear a second later: on the hellhound’s side was Sophia, her long nails digging into its flesh as she climbed on top of it. Then she bared her fangs with the most vicious snarl Dean had ever heard, before she sank them right into the dog’s neck. The hellhound yipped in surprise and turned to try to bite her, its jaws missing by inches as the vampire clambered up its body out of the way. The hellhound tried to buck her off — Dean having to stumble out of the way when it slammed against the wall again — but Sophia wasn’t deterred. She just pushed her legs against dog’s side and sank her teeth in again.

In the grand scheme of things, for a vampire who had thrown herself at an angel to protect her family, a hellhound wasn’t nearly as terrifying. But Dean still couldn’t believe she had done it, or that she was basically riding the dog as it tried to bite and buck her off. (More impressively, she was holding on with one arm too, her injured one still in its scarf-sling.) It wasn’t just an act of bravery though: She had attacked the dog with her best weapon, her _venom_. It was already starting to work, too, Dean noticing how the dog’s movements grew sluggish as it tried to bite her again, legs starting to buckle. That was his cue then, Dean yelling at her as he lifted up his pistol and took aim.

“Sophia, _move_!”

She did, wrenching herself free and falling off the dog, hitting the ground with an ‘oof.’ Dean, opened fire, unloading bullet after bullet into the dog’s head, face, shoulder, whatever he could hit. With the venom in its system, the hellhound wasn’t fast enough to react, yipping as each bullet sank in. It backed up, toward the ocean, trying to move away from the onslaught; Dean followed it to the mouth of the crevice, firing again and again. It took the entire clip to bring it down, but with one final pained sound, it collapsed right in the waves. Surf swept in around it and batted at its body, blood-stained water and foam pulled back into the ocean.

The smell of blood and gunpowder was heavy in the air, the dog’s dying whimpering the only sounds besides the waves for a moment. Dean could feel himself shaking and panting again, once more waiting long enough to see if the hellhound would rise again before he instinctively looked over at the others. Sophia was with Benny, her scarf gone and pushed against the vampire’s arm to stop the bleeding; he could see Benny too, _alive_ , his head tossing back and forth, teeth gritting in pain. The other vampires were over by Cas in the back of the crevice, Elpis curled around Drake, sobbing and trying to lift the toddler up with her as she got to her feet. Cas himself was half-sitting against the wall, brow creased as he mumbled away in his sleep. _“They’re in trouble,”_ Dean heard him whispering, _“They’re in trouble. I have to help, I have to help...”_

The only one missing was Sam, and Dean’s heart leapt when he remember he had left his brother fighting off two demons on his own. The crevice was almost as deep as he was tall, but where he was at, jutting rocks to their side blocked his view of the beach and of Sam. But before he could scramble up over the crevice to go help, Sam appeared, literally _sliding_ inside.

It wasn’t a moment too soon: Bullets followed him, pinging off the lip of the crevice and whizzing over them, Dean hearing the demons shouting in frustration. Sam’s eyes were wide with fear and he was breathing heavily — no surprise when he had probably sprinted to the crevice to get inside before the demons hit him — and he quickly sought Dean out. They reached for each other at the same time, clasping arms as Sam blurted out, _“Dean?_ ”

There were a dozen questions in that word alone, and Dean didn’t know how to answer any of them. ( _Were they okay?_ was the main question, but Dean didn’t know what condition Benny was in yet.) They both flinched when bullets hit the rocks again, and then quickly peered over to see the demons moving toward them, darting from cover to cover. It made Sam curse, and then start digging into their supply bag next to Cas, where their extra ammo clips were. “We can’t let them pin us down again,” he growled as he reloaded, empty magazine clinking against the ground when it fell. He slapped a fresh one in, and then pulled hard on the operating rod of the rifle. “Get everyone ready to move, Dean!”

It wasn’t that simple, but there was no time to tell Sam; his brother had already turned around, pressing himself up against the rock and bracing his rifle against the crevices’ edge. He started firing at the demons again, who both ducked for their covers; meanwhile, Dean cursed and then scrambled over to Benny’s side, crawling over Cas’s legs to do so. Though it was wide enough they could fit in it, there wasn’t much room to maneuver inside their shelter; as he passed Cas, he heard the angel whisper, _“I have to help, I have to help—”_

The vampire had moved up some to prop himself up on the wall, the scarf Sophia still pressed against his shoulder black with blood. Elpis sat on his other side, sobbing away with a crying Drake wrapped up in her arms. Benny, pale, sweating and breathing heavily, was trying to reassure her by holding her hand with his non-injured one. His blue eyes, brimming in clear pain, flickered over when Dean dropped beside him, and he managed to grin. His teeth were bloody as he muttered to Elpis, “See? See? The doctor’s here t’ make me all better.”

 _If only I was,_ Dean thought, but he knew even a doctor would have been lost in their current situation with no supplies and demons shooting at them. Dean gestured Sophia away so he could look at Benny’s injuries, but with the ever darkening sky and with all the blood, it was hard to see the full extent of the damage. Dean peeled apart the giant tears now in Benny’s jacket to examine his wound, grimacing when torn skin moved with the fabric (not good). The blood-soaked pink underneath was definitely muscle, and possibly a peak of bone too (really not good), gouge marks up and down his arm saying the hellhound had bitten him twice before it started tearing into him.

Dean hissed under his breath as he glanced up at the vampire, Benny’s lips twitching toward a grimace this time. He reached over, and patted his side, shirt torn like it had been slashed with a knife several times. (The hellhound’s claws were sharp as blades though.) “Somethin’ is wrong with my ribs too, brother,” he muttered. “The dog landed on them, and it was kind of heavy.”

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean found himself thinking. _That_ wasn’t good. Worse than his arm actually — at least Dean could wrap that up and could deal with it when they weren’t being shot at. Broken ribs were a whole other story, and Dean didn’t know how he was going to deal with those uet. First though, he had to stop the bleeding in Benny’s arm, and Sophia’s scarf was a wet mess now. He reached for their supply bag again, where they also had some fresh clothes, and found a shirt. He tore it in two, and then wrapped it around the wound, pulling it tight to add pressure. The vampire let out a pained hiss, eyes squeezing shut.

Dean muttered a quick apology, and then looked over when Sam yelled at him. His brother ducked beneath the crevice edge again, reaching for another ammo clip. There were still bullets flying over them, their standoff with the demons apparently going nowhere; Sam looked surprised to see they weren’t ready, his eyes flicking from Benny and then back. “ _Dean?_ ” he asked again, frantic.

There was another dozen questions in that single one again. What was wrong? Why weren’t they ready? Was Benny okay? Could he move? This time, Dean didn’t _want_ to answer, glancing back at the vampires. Because that one was a definitive _no_ : If Benny had broken ribs, he might be able to walk... But it’d be slow, and he’d risk puncturing a lung or worse. And they needed to _run,_ get off the beach as fast as they could before the rest of the demons found them and trapped them. Dean couldn’t exactly build another stretcher for Benny, and they still had Cas, who had his _own_ broken ribs to deal with. They couldn’t carry them _both,_ not when at least one of them needed their hands free to use their weapons—

Benny seemed to realize what Dean was thinking, his eyes going wide before he visibly gulped. He reached over then, latching onto Dean’s wrist. “Just leave me behind, brother,” he whispered, and Dean went still. “Take them and go. I-I’ll be alright.”

Dean’s stomach dropped at that, but any words he might have said were lost when the other vampires immediately protested. “No, Benny, _no_ , we are _not_ leaving you,” Sophia snapped in her deep voice while Elpis went quiet mid-sob, her eyes going wide as she seemed to realize what he said. Benny looked away to reassure the girls, telling them it was alright, while Dean swallowed painfully, his hands shaking a little.

Between hellhounds and demons, he hadn’t had much time to think about anything but keeping everyone safe. But the sinking feeling was coming back to him, a painful reminder of what their situation was, and how they had nearly _died_ already. And now Benny was injured, _badly…_ Was that just the beginning of the end? Was this _it?_

Shit _,_ Dean thought, feeling the tiniest stabs of panic in his chest. There had to be a way to get them all out of this. There _had_ to be a way—

“Oh _no_ ,” Sam whispered then.

Dean glanced at his brother, noticing Sam was looking over at the forest, and then lifting up to do the same. What he saw made his heart leap, and his stomach drop again _._ The clouds had parted enough that moonlight had started to stream through, lighting up the beach and revealing the demons that were emerging from the forest. They were spread out from each other, eight in total, but they all moved toward the same place: Their shelter.

 _Oh no,_ was right _._

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought again, feeling a stab of panic this time. The crevice gave them cover, but it also effectively _trapped_ them, its only exit leading straight into the ocean. All the demons had to do was surround them; pin them down from every angle. If they did that, it didn’t matter if Benny wanted to them to take the kids and go: _None_ of them were leaving. It would be just like before too: The demons would try to flank them again, a few shooting at them to keep their heads down while the others advanced close enough to finish them off. And this time they had the numbers to make it work.

The sinking sensation was back, stronger this time, and Dean felt himself shaking again. But he fought it again, eyes darting around the field, looking for any possible exit. This couldn’t be it, he thought again, frantic. This couldn’t _be—_

Sam yelled his name, and Dean looked over in surprise. Bullets flew over their heads aimlessly, as Sam leaned in close and cried, “We need to punch through their line, Dean!”

Dean frowned, confused, while Sam quickly outlined his plan. “We kill at least two daemons in the line, and cover each other as we make our way through it. Then when we’re clear, we make a break for the meadow!”

Dean’s eyes flicked over to the field again, realizing Sam was right. The demons were spaced out far enough that if they did break open the line, they could get past before they could fill in the gaps. It would just be like before, going out one-by-one while the others gave covering fire. (Hopefully, with no hellhounds this time.) And they could even get Benny out, too, if they could provide enough covering fire for him as he made his way over...

It was a plan — not the best one they ever had, but they didn’t exactly have a ton of options now. It didn’t help the sinking sensation any either, but he nodded at his brother, and Sam’s lips twitched again. He then looked back at the others, quickly relaying the plan to them. “Hang on!” he cried when he finished explaining, Benny, Sophia and Elpis looking up at them with wide eyes. “We are going to get out of this!”

 _They were_ , Dean reassured himself as he reloaded his rifle, slapping a new magazine in. (He decided to ignore how they only have one clip left in the bag, too.) Sam turned to him next. “Dean, get us an opening!”

Dean nodded again, sucking in a deep breath to steady his nerves. He was a good shot, a _damn_ good shot, really the best person to get them an opening they needed. The assault rifle wasn’t his preferred method for making said shots, but something like that had never stopped him before. He could do this, he told himself, bracing himself against the wall and waiting for his brother’s cue to move. Sam started a countdown again, and Dean took another deep breath, readying himself. (He had to do this, he thought. He _had_ to.) _One… Two…_

“Three!” Dean yelled this time, and both lifted up. Since the two demons were earlier were firing at them to keep their heads down, none of them probably expected the two brothers to come back guns blazing. As all the demons scattered for cover, Dean only had a heartbeat to level his gun, find their opening and aim for the demon who was blocking their way. And he did, firing a volley of bullets and catching the demon right before he dove behind a rock. Bullets tore into the demon’s neck and head, mists of blood seen in the moonlight as he fell.

 _One down_ , Dean thought as he adjusted his aim to find the other demon he had targeted. She had made it to her cover, much to Dean’s frustration — he was going to have to wait until she tried to shoot at them to get her too. Except they didn’t have _time_ to wait; he needed to kill her _now,_ but how?

If he had some covering fire, Dean would have tried flanking her while she was distracted by whoever was shooting at her. Except his brother had enough on his plate: He was trying to hold back _eight_ other demons, and that meant gunfire, and _a lot_ of it. The air was filled with flying bullets, Sam alternating between one demon’s cover to the next, firing at them to keep their heads down.

But he was only so fast, the demons too far spread out for Sam to keep them all down at once; those he wasn’t firing at could shoot back, and they _were._ Both Dean and Sam had to duck back down as gunfire pinged off the rocks right in front of them, Dean feeling the bullets whizz up over his head. That wasn’t good: Any closer, or if the bullet had hit at a different angle, and he knew he might have taken a bullet straight to the forehead.

 _Son of a bitch!_ Dean thought once more, while Sam reloaded again. They couldn’t go back in though, bullets flying over their heads keeping them down. A quick glimpse over told Dean that the some of the demons were starting to advance toward them too, moving while the others gave them cover, and that had Dean cursing again. They were _losing_ ground...

 _This can’t be_ it, he thought again, frantically trying to think of a way out. But the only solution there seemed to be was _more_ firepower, enough to keep all the demons back while Dean got them their opening. Where were they going to get that though…?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he noticed Sophia scrambling over to him. She was ducked low, yelling at him, but he couldn’t hear her over the gunfire. A quick glance told him the others were okay for now — Benny half-curled around the children, shielding them just in case; Cas still mumbling away from himself — but he turned back when Sophia pulled in closer, yelling louder.

“Let me help!” she cried.

If Dean hadn’t seen her take on an angel or save him from a hellhound, he might have told her no. But he had, and they _needed_ that firepower — maybe she was the answer. Heart pounding, he nodded to her to her obvious delight, and then he bobbed his head to a frowning Sam. “Get his pistol!” he yelled.

Sam gave him an unsure glance, but a quick look of reassure from Dean made him retrieve the pistol he had from his waistband, handing it over. Dean then had to give her the quickest shooting lesson he had ever given, Sophia listening intently. ( _“Focus on the front sight,”_ he said, gesturing at the little metal nub on the gun. _“It tells you where you’re aiming. Focus on the front sight, not on your target. Then start firing!”)_ She went to next to Sam’s side, bracing herself against the wall while his brother started another countdown. “Sophia, shoot adjacent to me. Dean, you know what to do. One… _Two…”_

“Three!” they all yelled and came back up, firing again. And it worked — the pistol was no assault rifle, but bullets were bullets, and Sophia fired as fast as she could, fast enough to keep her set of demons’ heads down. Sam fired back at the others, while Dean turned back to _his_ demon, aiming his weapon where he knew she was. And it take long for her to twist around her cover to return fire — probably having seen the others getting fired on and coming in to help — and Dean was waiting for her. The second she was in his sights through his scope, he took the shot and hit her right between the eyes.

 _Yes,_ his entire being seemed to roar, Dean’s heart soaring as he turned back to his brother. “Sammy!” he yelled, and his brother glanced at him. “We got our opening!”

Sam’s hopeful grin was blinding, like the sun. And Dean would have soaked in it forever if they had the time, but it did shoot through his veins, focusing him on what they had to do. With their opening, it was time to put the next part of the plan into motion. “Go, Dean, go!” Sam yelled at him, waving him forward. “We’ll cover—”

He never got to finish that sentence.

He couldn't, since that was right when Dean watched Sam get shot.

* * *

 _“You have to_ fight _.”_

_“How?” Sam had asked him, tears in his eyes. “How do I fight back? How do we fight and survive this, Dean?”_

_It seemed impossible. Maybe it was impossible. “I don’t know,” Dean murmured, knowing that wouldn’t comfort Sam any. It had made his brother wince too. “Maybe we won’t survive this, Sammy. Maybe we’ll die here, and everything we fought for won’t matter… But at least we_ fought _.”_

At the time, it made perfect sense to think that, Dean thought. The monster had taken so much from them, and they had to fight back to stop him from taking anything else. And in a place where nothing else mattered, that _mattered_.

Watching Sam fall to the ground, Dean realized then what a load of bullshit that was. There was still so much more the monster could take, and he was going to take it all no matter how hard they fought.

 _We’re all just meat, Dean,_ he heard Dick whisper in the back of his mind before Dean completely lost it.

“Sam!” he screamed, scrambling over to his brother. He completely forgot about the demons, about the danger they were in, about _everything._ All that mattered was Sam, Samuel, _Sammy_ , his baby brother, and the spray of bloody he had seen when the bullet had hit his head. “Sammy, no, no, no, _no_!”

Sam was _alive,_ but that was barely a relief for Dean. Not when his brother looked so disoriented when Dean grabbed him and heaved him up to sit against the wall, Sam blinking profusely. His hand wavered as he reached up to touch his bloody head, and then stared at his wet fingers, bewildered. “Dean?” he asked, confused.

“Let me look at you, let me look at you,” Dean pleaded as he moved Sam’s hand out of the way and examined his injury for himself. Blood was flowing down his face from the wound on the side of his head, hair already matted and sticky. Dean had to push it away to see the full extent of the damage, Sam’s eye starting to swell shut, skin jagged and torn just above his eyebrow back to his ear. The bullet had grazed him, and looked worse than it probably was (head wounds always bled like nothing else), but that didn’t stop Dean from feeling another wave of crippling panic. Mostly because of how Sam blinked at him again, eyes out of focus. “D-Dean, whaaaa… whaaaa happened? I’m not feeling so good.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Sammy,” Dean reassured, reaching for their supply bag where they had another shirt to use as a bandage. But as he pushed it to Sam’s head, feeling the cloth soak up blood immediately, he had to admit to himself it was _not_ okay. The bullet might have only grazed Sam, but it had still been a _bullet_ — hitting his brother like a two-by-four going at over one thousand miles an hour. Sam clearly had a concussion, but how bad it was, Dean didn’t know, only that those weren’t usually good. (Such a nice term for _traumatic brain injury,_ he thought with a inane giggle _.)_ And it didn’t stop him from thinking over the worst-case scenarios too: How just an _inch_ to the right and that graze would have been a headshot, and Sam would have _died, Sam would have—_

They were all going to die.

Dean felt himself stiffen, stomach dropping like a rock. There was no avoiding it now. No trying to push it down. He had been fighting that thought for so long that the moment he let it get its claws in, it wasn’t going to let go, made Dean stare it right in its bottomless maw. If he hadn’t watched his brother get hit by the bullet, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, but he couldn’t deny it now or shove it down. It overwhelmed him, paralyzed him.

_They were going to die._

Sam was disoriented, confused, movements slow and _weak_ — he wouldn’t be able to hold a gun, let alone fire. They had lost any advantage they had the moment he had gotten shot, and had left Sophia on her own, the young vampire still giving it her all though. But that didn’t change the fact that they were pinned down in a hole with demons coming at them from all sides. Benny was badly injured too, Cas was out, Sophia was only one girl, Dean was _paralyzed_ with fear. There were no exits, no ways out. They were trapped, _and they were going to die_.

Dean could feel himself shaking, heart hammering away in his chest. He couldn’t breathe either, the sinking sensation in his stomach so akin to drowning. _God_ , he thought, vision going blurry. Was this it? Was this _it? This couldn’t be—_

Except it was: Dean heard a _click-click-click,_ and saw Sophia look at her now-empty pistol, and then throw it away with a yell of frustration. He met Benny’s eyes briefly, and watched a vampire break down in a heartbeat, his arm drawing the children closer to against him. Dean had to look away, but he couldn’t look at his brother again, not unless he wanted to break. There was only one place to look, and that was at Cas.

Cas was looking back at him.

Dean’s breath hitched in surprise, and then he went still when the angel reached up, fingers brushing Dean’s cheek. The touch had Dean rooted to the ground for a whole other reason, unable to look away as Cas whispered, “I remember you. I remember everything.”

 _What?_ Dean wondered.

It was near impossible to hear him over the sounds of bullets flying over them or the surf crashing into the shore. But at the same time, it was like all sounds slowly faded from existence, leaving only them, and them alone. Cas’s fingers traced down his cheek, over his lips; his own lips twitched toward a smile, eyes growing warm.

“You were the boy in the forest,” he murmured, and Dean felt stop breathing altogether. “Running from the daemons, chased by a hellhound, trying to protect your sibling. So scared, but so, so _brave_. Your soul cried out for help, and I had to answer it. I had to save you.”

Dean couldn’t breathe; couldn’t even really understand what Cas was saying, still stuck on the first part. (He was talking about Colt’s Gate. He was talking about Dean as a child.) Cas’s brow creased then, and he cupped Dean’s cheek with his hand. “And now you’re here,” he whispered again, and Dean saw the tears filling his eyes. “My soul cried out for help, and there you were. You saved me, Dean. You _saved_ me.”

 _I saved you?_ Dean wondered, confused, mind still moving so slowly. He didn’t even have time to protest that, the words sinking into his skin, into his _bones_. _I saved you_.

Cas looked away then, past him and toward the ocean, and Dean’s eyes followed instinctively. He could see the others turning as well: Sam squinting a little, eyes still out of focus; tears filling Sophia’s eyes; Benny’s mouth falling open. And when Dean saw why, his heart stopped completely.

Out on the ocean, its shape was revealed by the moonlight as it sailed toward them, a single beacon of light on its deck guiding it toward the island. It let out a blast from its horn, announcing itself to all those on the beach that it was coming for them.

 _Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought, feeling tears slip down his cheeks.

It was Bobby’s _boat_.


	35. Chapter 35

_You saved me, Dean._

Dean could feel that thrumming in his skin, vibrating in his bones, coursing through his veins. He could feel it in the pounding of his heart, in each breath he took, singing in his blood. It grew in power and strength as the boat drew closer to the island, letting out another blast of its horn.

_You saved me._

He wasn’t even sure what that feeling was, only that it made him want to start laughing. Start crying too. He wanted to cheer, to sing, to just kneel there and thank every deity who wanted thanking. Because Bobby had _made it_. The boat was _here_. The nightmare that had been the past three days — what felt like an entire lifetime now — was over. Sam and Cas and Benny and the kids were all going _home._ They were _saved._

Except…

The feeling faded as Dean turned away, looking up out at the beach again. The demons were all staring out at the boat too, a mixture of shock and awe on their faces, black eyes wide. Except that surprise would eventually wear off, and they would return to what they were there to do: _Kill_ them. And even if Dean could hold them off long for the boat to pull into shore, the demons could just shoot at it to disable it, maybe even sink it. Bobby’s transport looked like a small fishing boat — it wasn’t built to take fire from _assault rifles_.

 _No_ , Dean thought, the drowning feeling from earlier returning. They were so close to getting off the island — the boat was _right there_ — but would they ever get to it? After everything they have been through _,_ with rescue within reach, would they _still_ die on this beach? No, it couldn’t end like this, it _couldn’t_ —

_Don’t be afraid._

Those words were like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water and sucking in air again. Dean felt his heart start to pound again as he looked over the demons once more, Andrea’s words filling his ears.

 _Face it head on. Become who you_ need _to be._

But who did he need to be? Dean wondered. He had thought he had that figured out. He had thought he had to be someone who would do anything for their family, no matter the cost… But maybe that wasn’t quite it, he realized.

Maybe it was someone who _could_ do anything for their family. Even the impossible.

Dean’s heart sped up again, a plan beginning to take shape in his mind. They needed to clear the beach of demons, and if they moved quick enough, maybe they _could_. The demons were caught off guard right now; if they pushed hard and fast, they might not realize it until it was too later.

Dean swallowed. The idea was insane, probably _impossible_ to pull off… But the feeling from earlier was surging through him again, and it was erasing any doubts. Wasn’t that what he was good at? he thought. Making things up as he went?

He looked at Cas as he thought that, the angel's blue eyes shifting to meet his. In those eyes were a few simple words, but they gave Dean all the strength he needed.

 _You saved me_.

Dean’s heart pounded again, before he looked around the others. He was going to need some help in this plan, but he couldn’t ask Sam. He wasn’t sure what his brother’s state was, but at the moment he was still clearly disoriented and staring dumbly out at the boat. There was Sophia however, the vampire’s yellow eyes flicking to his when Dean turned to her with a grin.

“Wanna’ learn how to shoot an assault rifle?” he asked.

If the request was out there, she didn’t seem to notice. Her only reaction was a slight lift of her lips, reminiscent of the matriarch’s smirk.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, and Dean’s grin grew.

* * *

Two of the demons seemed to be arguing into their radios, while the others stared out at the boat or looked between each other, confused. None of them noticed Sophia leveling the rifle on the crevice edge, or when she aimed it right toward them. They _did_ notice when she started shooting, the demons letting out yells of surprise and scattering for cover.

That was Dean’s cue: He scrambled up over the crevice edge and onto the beach the moment Sophia started shooting, and took off in a full run. (Or what his knee would let him get away with anyway.) He went to the sport he had killed the demon to break through their line, when they had planned to head for the meadow. To stop himself, he had to catch onto the rock she had used as cover, sliding along the dirt before he dropped to the ground next to the body.

The new position meant he was facing all the demons in the line, none of whom knew he was there, all of their attention over on the crevice. Dean was going to take advantage of that, and he went for demon’s assault rifle and her supply bag, specifically her ammo clips. He stuffed a few magazines in his pockets, before he he sucked in a deep breath and aimed his new rifle.

 _Surprise,_ he thought and then opened fire.

A volley of bullets tore up the side of the first demon in the row, Dean continuing to fire even as she fell. He nailed the second demon too, before the others reacted and turned toward him. Dean didn’t give them a chance to return fire, pausing long enough to shout an incoming at Sophia and _hurl_ the supply bag with all his might toward the crevice. Then, he fled for the grass; not a moment too soon either, a hail of bullets flying off rocks in his wake.

 _Two down, seven to go,_ he thought, keeping low as he moved through the grass to his next position.

Out on the ocean, the boat blared its horn again, drowning out the gunfire and yells of demons. From the distance, Bobby would probably be able to see the flashes of light from the gunfire, and would know something was wrong. It’d probably drive him to get to the island faster to help, and that in turn drove Dean to hurry. He got to his next spot, stopping at a tree that would serve as his cover and peering over the grass to find the demons again. They hadn’t been able to come search for him: Sophia was firing on the them again, forcing them to stay near their covers so they didn’t get hit. That was what Dean was counting on, and he set sights on demon number three, squeezing the trigger.

 _Two down, six more to go._ Except now the element of surprise had been lost, and the demons regrouped, able to take charge of the field faster with their numbers. Before Dean could get a shot at demon number four, their leader barked orders that had them splitting off in twos. Two of the demons laid down on the ground next to their covers, out of Dean’s line of sight in the grass; two darted into the grass, while the other two aimed their guns right toward him, Dean cursing and ducking back behind his tree.

Gunfire filled the air again, bullets whizzing past Dean or slamming into the tree trunk. It had him cursing again — they didn’t have time for another firefight, not when he needed to end this _now_. He had to think fast too: the two demons who had disappeared in the grass would probably try to flank him, and he’d be in trouble then. He had lost Sophia’s support too, the two demons on the ground shooting suppression fire over at the crevice, an onslaught that sent her ducking back for cover.

 _Shit_ , Dean thought, looking around for the demons he knew were in the grass. Even with moonlight lighting up the whole beach, it was difficult to see anything in the grass, especially with the ocean wind making it sway. Dean’s eyes darted from movement to movement, gun at ready for the first sight of a demon, which was when a bullet slammed into the tree. It sent a spray of bark toward his face, Dean instinctively closing his eyes and raising his arm as a shield.

That was his undoing: His eyes were only closed for a second, but when he opened them up, he saw the first demon on his left. He rose up from the grass, his rifle aimed right him, and Dean cursed again. There was no time to try to shoot back, though he tried anyway, snapping his rifle forward—

Something leapt _onto_ the demon, face an ‘O’ of surprise before both tumbled into the grass. Dean only got a glimpse of _who_ it was — and _holy shit,_ he thought, shocked — before he glanced over when the other demon in the grass rose up from the grass. “Lucifer’s _ass_!” she yelled, rifle pointing toward her fallen comrade, seeming to forget Dean was there. He seized advantage of that, sucking in a breath, aiming and firing all in two seconds. The bullets hit her side and neck, and she staggered, rifle dropping; it left her complete vulnerable when Dean next nailed her with a headshot, her head blown back before she hit dirt.

He didn’t take time to gloat, swiftly turning back to where he had last seen the other demon and his unexpected ally. He couldn’t move from his spot with the other demons’ bullets keeping him down, but he could at least slide up along the trunk to see if it was actually who he thought it was. And it _was_ : Dean’s mouth dropping as he watched her rise up from the grass, her green eyes bright in the moonlight.

“Andrea!” he cried, and then grinned. Holy shit, she was _alive._ She was alive!

Greetings had to be put on hold though; there were still four other demons to deal with, and two still shooting at him. Andrea and Dean exchanged the quickest of glances, and he was left grinning when she nodded in understanding and then darted back into the grass.

They were going to use the demons’ own tactics against them, Dean waiting for a lull in their firing before he twisted around the tree to shoot back. The demons ducked but almost immediately started firing back, which meant they never saw the matriarch coming. Dean watched came up behind the first one, her claws slashing throat before he could even react. The other demon looked over, and then tried to turn his rifle toward him, for all the good that did him. Andrea launched herself at him, latching onto his arm and sending them both to the ground.

 _Six down, two to go,_ Dean thought triumphantly, pushing himself off the tree. The only ones left were the demons on the ground who had been firing at the crevice, but both had stopped when they heard their comrade’s screams. And now they were in trouble: Sophia and someone else ( _Sam?_ Dean thought hopefully) had started shooting back at them, keeping them pinned down. One demon had rolled onto his back, gun along his chest, the weapon aimed toward the forest where Andrea had last been seen. The other was trying to get to her feet, swearing up and down as she did. “I’m going to kill them all by _myself_.” she snarled through gritted teeth. “I swear by _Lucifer’s_ —”

Dean didn’t give her a chance to finish.

The boat blared its horn again as the roar of gunfire faded from the air, leaving only the sounds of the ocean in its wake. That, and Dean’s heaving breathing as he stumbled away from the demons and over to a tree, bracing himself on the trunk. The rush of adrenaline was leaving him almost as fast as it had come to him; he drenched in sweat, his ribs ached and knee _throbbed._

But he didn’t care, a breathless laugh falling from his lips as he looked out at the boat again. And once he started, he couldn’t stop, because _holy shit._

They had done it. They had done _it._ They had pulled off the craziest-ass plan that Dean had ever come up with in ten seconds: The beach clear, the demons dead, and Bobby’s boat now had a clear pathway in. And they had done it together: Sophia, Sam, Andrea, even _himself_. And that had him grinning, the feeling from earlier starting to course through his veins again. It left him feeling invincible, like they could do _anything_ — _he_ could do anything.

And maybe he could, he thought, heart pounding again. No, not maybe. He _could_. He _would_. He would save his family. He would save the love of his life. He would save his friends. He _would_ get them home. _Nothing_ was going to stop him now.

First things first though: They had to get _on_ that boat.

With the feeling from before thrumming through him and giving him new energy, Dean pushed himself off the tree. He waved Sophia and Sam to tell them it was okay, both having poked their heads up over the crevice edge to look at him. Then he searched for Andrea, and spotted the matriarch nearby, having slumped against her own tree. She was staring out at the boat, holding her side as she panted heavily, not looking over when Dean stumbled over to her.

“Your boat came,” she muttered at him, and Dean let out another breathless laugh.

“And you’re fucking _alive_ ,” he shot back good-naturedly, and then checked her over visually for any injuries. She looked okay, aside from some new cuts and scrapes, and the way she was holding her side. It was hard to tell with her jacket covering it, but it looked bloody. “When the demons showed up here, we thought—”

She glanced at him then, a dribble of sweat making its way down her scarred eye. “Not for the demons’ lack of trying, believe me,” she said, and then glanced over toward the crevice, worry crossing her face. Her voice became small, but that couldn’t hide the fear in it, “The others?” she asked.

Dean nodded quickly to reassure her that yes, they were okay, and the matriarch’s eye closed as she let out a sigh of relief. “Benny got banged up pretty bad, but he’s alive, don’t worry,” Dean added quickly, Andrea’s eye opening to look at him again. “Everyone else is fine too, and _fuck_ , they’ll be thrilled to see you. But what about you? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” she muttered gravely, and then pushed to her feet, wavering a little. Her side was clearly still bothering her, but she brushed off Dean’s offer to check it. Instead, she looked toward the forest, her nostrils flaring. “We need to hurry, though. We don’t have much time.”

Dean frowned, confused. Much time?

“They know you’re here. I think they knew you were here, too,” Andrea explained, and Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I found a group of demons by the river, waiting for a signal to come here. And now they are: I heard it on their radios when the call came in, saying they found you. The monster and the rest of the demons — _they’re on their way_.”

Dean’s mind went blank at that, stomach dropping like a rock. _Uh oh,_ was all he could think for a moment. (And he couldn’t go over what else she had said: The demons had known they were here? The monster had been waiting for them at the river? The same river they had planned to head to when things had gone south here?) He felt a chill go through him as he looked out at the ocean again, seeing the boat was now coming into the bay.

 _Son of a bitch,_ he thought. Heart beginning to pound again, he quickly turned back to Andrea.

“How long do we have?” he asked.

Her face grew grim, and Dean cursed again. His mind started to race, but panic was made his thoughts erratic. All he knew was they had to keep the boat away from shore still, but how did they warn Bobby? And how did they get to the boat then? (Were they going to have to _swim?_ Swim in the freezing cold Alaskan waters?) He also knew there were at least seven demons left, if he was remembering right. That meant they would have to defend the beach again, but Dean wasn’t they could pull off another crazy-ass plan like the last one. Not with the _monster_ was going to be there too _,_ and oh shit, the _monster—_

_Don’t be afraid._

Dean’s mind snapped back into focus at those words, his chest heaving as he sucked in air. _No,_ he had to _think_. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t let that get to him, not when they were this damn close to getting off the island. There was a way to warn Bobby, but _how?_ What did they have that could help?They had weapons, the supplies the demons carried and—

_Radios._

Dean’s heart leapt, and he looked toward the nearest demon. What if they could use a radio to communicate to Bobby and tell him to stay back? And maybe that would solve their other problem too. Knowing Bobby, he’d pack for any sort of emergency — the man was more paranoid than Dean was — and what if he had _life rafts_ on the boat _?_ They’d be smaller, harder as a target to hit… And an even harder target to hit if they could keep the demons distracted while they loaded everyone on the rafts…

The new plan came together like puzzle pieces, and Dean quickly turned to Andrea. “Get to the others,” he told her. “I’ll explain when I get there, but tell them we’re leaving _now_.”

She looked at him in surprise, and maybe even a little wonder, before she nodded once. While she darted off toward the beach, Dean quickly hobbled over to the nearest demon’s body. He had seen the demons use the radios a dozen times now — but stupidly hadn’t thought to grab one though — and knew they used a wireless headset, with the radio itself strapped to their jackets. He got the headset first and put it on, keeping the radio at his side before he pushed the body over to get to the supply bag. He rummaged inside, looking for one thing in particular, pushing aside ammo packs and water bottle. When he found it, he grinned, pulling the flashlight free from the bag.

He still didn’t know why the demons carried them, but like hell was he going to complain right then. He clicked it on to make sure it worked — it did — before he looked back at the ocean, mind racing again. Did he even remember enough morse code so he could signal Bobby…?

Only one way to find out. Dean slid the headset into his ear, hearing a demon speaking on the channel. _“Red team, report. Red team, report! Over!”_

Red team was probably dead behind him, Dean quickly switching to a new channel. When he confirmed it was clear, he turned the flashlight in the direction of the boat, flicking it on. Then off. On, a little longer. Off again. On, but shorter this time. On. Off. On—

 _FREQ 14_ , he told Bobby in the series of light flashes, and he wasn’t surprised when the radio crackled to life only a heartbeat later. _“Dean? Dean, is that you?”_

The rush of emotion Dean felt hearing his voice left him a little dizzy. Fuck, never had Bobby’s gravely voice sounded like goddamn music to his ears. Dean didn’t even care that it made tears sprang to his eyes. “Yeah, it’s me, Bobby, it’s _me_ ,” he replied, voice thick. He could almost see Bobby, trucker hat and flannel and all, clutching the radio as he listened to Dean’s reply. “I’m here. I’m okay. I got Sam too. Sammy’s _alive,_ Bobby _._ ”

Bobby swore on the other line. Regrettably, Dean, knowing Bobby would have a billion questions, quickly cut him off again. “Listen, Bobby, we don’t have a lot of time,” he said and then glanced behind toward the forest. Did he hear a demon shouting? “We’re about to have trouble on our doorstep again, and we got six people we gotta evacuate with us — a vampire family and an angel. Two are _badly_ injured too. But I need you not to come too close to shore, you hear me? I repeat, do _not_ come close to shore. Over.”

Bobby’s reply was quick. “You want me not to do _what?!_ ”

Dean knew that wasn’t really a question, and he pressed the radio button again. Plan outline time now. “Listen to me, Bobby! Here’s what I need you to do…”

* * *

By the time Dean finished outlining his plan to Bobby, and was heading back to the crevice, the demons were definitely close. Their shouts echoed in the air, the radio crackling with their voices when Dean checked their frequency. _“Move to red team’s last known location,”_ one said, and there were a series of affirmatives. _“Yellow team, go in first. Blue and black are right behind you.”_

_“Roger that. Yellow team, ETA about ten minutes.”_

_Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought as he hobbled back down the beach over to the others. That wasn’t a lot of time, was it?

Sam was the first to greet him when Dean slid inside the crevice, his brother blinking up at him with his one good eye. Half of his face was wrapped up in a shirt and tied at the side of his head — the best Dean had been able to do with what he had, leaving his brother looking like a weird-ass pirate. “Dean?” he asked, a dozen questions in that one word alone.

Dean didn’t answer right away, looking Sam over and touching the side of his head where a thick line of blood had bleed through the cloth. “Got one hell of a headache, I’m still kind of dizzy and I feel like throwing up,” his brother replied to his unspoken question, and then returned to his own. “Dean, what are we going to do?”

“Make it up as we go,” he answered, and while Sam’s nose wrinkled, he glanced over at the others. Andrea was with her nest: Drake in her arms, Elpis clinging to her side, Sophia and Benny gazing at her like they couldn’t believe she was there. Dean looked at Cas next, the angel’s expression relieved, like he had been worried he wasn’t coming back.

It made Dean want to reach over and touch him to reassure him (himself too, actually), but they didn’t have time.

With everyone looking at him, it was time for plan outline number two. “Listen up, everyone. We don’t have much time left. We got demons on the way, and Dick is with them. The first group will be here in ten minutes.”

Everyone reacted in various ways to that news: Sam’s one eye went wide, the vampires exchanged fearful glances, Cas tensed. (Andrea was the only one who didn’t react, but she _did_ know about it already.) Dean pointed out to the boat, where Bobby had pulled it to a stop a safe distance away from shore. He had turned on all the boat’s lights too, and it lit up the whole beach, almost too bright to look at. On deck, they could see movement, and an unmistakeable orange raft being dropped into the water. That prompted Dean to continue, looking at the others again.

“We got two rafts coming in. Andrea, you and your family get one, and you’re going to take off for the boat as soon as you’re in. If the demons get here before we’ve made it the beach, we don’t want to give them a target any longer than we have to. Sammy, you’re second raft. You and Bobby load up Cas, and we take off as soon as Andrea’s raft is clear and out in open water.”

It would take time for the rafts to get past the waves, and they would need protecting until they were. Andrea nodded at Dean, while Sam’s one eye narrowed. “And you?” he asked, Dean glancing back over at him.

“I’ll be on point, watching our backs,” he said, and Sam frowned. Dean looked back at the others. “But if the demons show up before the rafts do, we need to all work together to keep them back. We can pin them up on the beach if we do this right, and we’ll be long gone before they catch up to us.”

Despite the solid plan, everyone still looked uneasy. Probably because Dean hadn’t mentioned the elephant in the room: Mainly, what they would do if the monster showed up. But he was trying not to think about that, knowing what it would do to them if they did. Fear could so easily paralyze them, especially when it came to the monster; he could even feel it even now, tiny bursts of panic only controlled by three simple words, _Don’t be afraid_.

No. They had to think about what was going right for them, and that Dean was happy to remind them about.

“We’re almost there. We’re almost off this island,” he told them, and the others looked over at him again. The feeling from earlier came surging through him once more, making his voice stronger, putting a confident smirk on his face. “We’ve came a long way, all of us. We bled, and we suffered and we gave up, thinking the monster was right. That we were just meat. That nothing we did mattered. That there was no reason to _hope_.”

Sam swallowed tightly; the vampires watched him with various expressions of thoughtfulness and awe. Cas looked at him at with sheer wonder in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe Dean was _real_. Dean almost couldn’t believe it himself, but the feeling coursing through him was something he could name now: Conviction. Hope. Righteousness. That was who he was all along, wasn’t he? Buried away, only glimpses of it coming through, but now? Now it was _free_.

“But there is reason to hope, there _always_ was,” he continued, and his smirk grew. “We fought back. We did the impossible: Held our own against the demons _and_ hellhounds. And now we’re about to pull off the impossible, _again_. We’re about to prove the monster wrong. We’re about to show him what _nothings_ can do. And best of all? We’re going _home_ too.”

Those words had an immediate effect on the others — Dean could see how much the word _home_ meant to everyone _._ Sam looked away from him, and Dean knew he was thinking about Jess and the twins. The vampires looked at each other as well, Andrea reaching for Benny’s free hand as she gazed over the children, lips sliding toward a smile. Cas was the only one who didn’t look away, staring up at Dean like he had never seen anything like him. Dean couldn’t help but look at him back, and it gave him the strength to say what he said next, and believe it like he had never believed in anything else before.

“We can do this. We can do _anything_.”

They could, and Dean saw it the moment everyone believed it too. He could see it in their eyes and their slow smiles: The same feeling he had inside him growing in them too.

_We can do anything._

He felt a hand curl around his wrist then, and pull lightly; he turned back to Cas, and the angel then moved his hand up to cup his face. There was so much in Cas’s blue, blue eyes: pride, and hope, and maybe even _love_. He traced his hand across Dean’s cheek, thumb brushing his lips; his voice croaked when he whispered, “We’re going home.”

“We are,” Dean replied, and his heart lifted when Cas’s lips slid toward the smallest smile. It was a sight that he had been convinced he would never see again, and he had to marvel at it. It was also what drew him in just as the angel pulled him in too, Cas pressing their lips together.

The kiss was gentle, slow, so much like their first one, but so much more too. Dean sank into it, reaching up to lightly grasp Cas’s wrist, eyes slipping closed. The kiss was a memory of warm blue eyes and a warm smile, the thought of hamburgers and cars, _you have me_ and _it’s okay_ all rolled into one. It was shared meals, shared smiles, laughter and jokes and a promise within a promise. Words whispered in the dark in dying firelight — _I want to live for you_ ; words whispered as a boat’s light shone on them — _I remember you._

_You saved me._

A kiss over far too, both breaking apart when the radio crackled to life.

_“Yellow team has arrived.”_

The demons were here. Dean’s heart started to pound again as he pulled away from Cas, looking out toward the ocean first. Bobby was only halfway to them, his rafts bobbing up and down in the open water, only able to move so fast. Dean quickly glanced at the others, but Sophia and Sam were already reloading their rifles, and Andrea looked ready to murder anyone with her eye alone. (And Dean didn’t have any doubts she would if she could.) They were ready to fight then, and Dean’s heart lifted before he turned back to Cas, taking in the sight of his blue eyes once again.

As Cas looked back at him, stroking his cheek in reassurance, Dean couldn’t help but remember something the angel had said to him so long ago. _“Let us strike them, Dean,”_ he had said, Dean remembering how he had almost been able to see Cas’s silver-and-blue armor and great black wings again _. “Let us show them what an angel is capable of; what a human is capable of. Let's show them why they should fear_ us _.”_

 _Let’s_ , Dean agreed again, and Cas nodded once.

The energy of that made Dean rise up, swinging his own rifle forward. “Alright everyone, this is _it_ ,” he said, and everyone looked at him. “We can do _this_ , don’t forget that!”

They nodded at him, and Dean grinned, before he was pushing himself up and out of the crevice. He ignored his knee as he ran for a log that was close by, knowing it was the best place to take point. Earlier, in the crevice, they barely had any room to maneuver, and the demons too easily had kept them pinned down, with no way to flank if they needed to. Dean wasn’t going to let that happen this time…

“Dean!” Sam yelled at him, and Dean winced. He probably should have told Sam that...

He reached the log not a moment too soon: Two demons emerged from the forest just as he did, darting forward through the grass and trees. They didn’t see him either, and Dean leveled his rifle on the log, lining one up in his sights. He sucked in a deep breath again, letting it calm his heart and focus him.

 _Don’t be afraid,_ his mind whispered to him one last time.

 _I’m not_ , Dean promised, and opened fire.

He hit one of the demons in the chest, shoulder and arm, sending him toppling over with a gurgling yell. That sent the other two scrambling for cover, reaching it just as Sophia and Sam starting shooting. Dean could hear the demons yelling at each other as he lined up his weapon again, aiming for the demon he could poking his head to try to take in the field. He fired, but missed, the demon throwing himself back behind the cover just in time.

That was alright though; if they couldn’t kill them, they just needed to keep them back. And with Sam and Sophia’s help, they were doing so — though they had to expand their range when three more demons came in. Dean took in his new targets, and readjusted his aim, and fired again and again and again.

He lost track of how long they were shooting for, but he realized quickly that the plan was working. Miracle of miracles, they were keeping the demons _back_ : every time they tried, one of their bullets was waiting for them, sending them back to cover. The demons shot back at them of course — when they had to reload especially, and things quickly escalated it into a firefight, bullets _flying_ everywhere. But they were holding their own — best of all, there was no sign of the monster either. Maybe they would get off the island before he showed up, Dean found himself thinking. _Maybe_...

In that time, the rafts landed, Dean noticing that when he had to stop to reload. He saw them briefly out in the ocean, and it looked like Andrea was swimming to meet them. The next time he glanced back, he couldn’t see them at all, which meant they could only be in one place: The beach. His heart really got going when he looked over the next time, seeing Sophia was gone and in her place, _Bobby._ He had his trucker hat and all on, and a rifle too. Dean couldn’t help his grin when he started firing — hell, that brought back memories — and it had the added bonus of Bobby being a much, _much_ better shot than any of them. He scored a hit on his first try too, hitting the demon who had come out of cover when Sophia started firing. Dean heard him cursing as he fell, clutching at his shoulder.

Then the first boat was off; Dean saw it bobbing in the water as the vampires peddled hard to get past the waves that threatened to push them back. Then his heart was like a jackhammer; so close, _so close,_ he started thinking. They were _so close_.

Then, it was their turn. _“Dean!”_ Sam yelled over the gunfire and Dean looked back at him. He could see the vampires’ life raft out on the ocean, and his brother waving frantically at him, the signal it was time.

Dean hesitated before he did, looking back at the demons. There were only three on the beach now, the last two and Dick nowhere in sight. Dean figured they were close though — they _had_ to be — but he wasn’t sticking around to find out. Instead he focused on getting his last few volleys in, waiting for the demons he was shooting at to duck. Then, bracing himself on the log first, he threw himself into a run, heading right for the crevice.

Sam and Bobby covered him as he ran, Dean ducked low as he did, so the demons didn’t have a bullseye on his back. He knew the second he got to the crevice, he was going to start firing again before the demons tried to move up the beach after him. But from there, they would all load up on the raft, and hopefully they’d be halfway to the open ocean before the demons made it to the crevice. They were so _close,_ Dean could almost taste it. They were going to do this. _They were going to do this_.

Sam waved at him again, encouraging him to hurry, but Dean saw the second his face fell. He was looking at something past him, and instinctively, Dean glanced over his shoulder to see what it was.

He only got the briefest glimpse — a tall figure coming onto the beach, form familiar even from the distance. It was the _monster,_ and Dean saw that he had his hunting rifle up, aimed right at him.

It was the last thing Dean saw before his bad knee _exploded_ with pain _._ The shockwaves that went through him made him see white — he could hear himself screaming, smell his blood on the air, feel himself fall — and then _everything, everything,_ went black.


	36. Chapter 36

_“If you’re in a pinch, you can just use a sapling,” Dean says as he knots the stake to a willowy branch. Sam, kneeling beside him on the dirt, watches him intently. “If you got the time though, build the entire trap. It’s a simple one, but it doesn’t matter what you’re hunting: You can it take down with a pig spear trap.”_

_“Anything?” Sam asks, his shaggy hair falling into his one eye when he looks up at him. Half of his face is wrapped up in bloody bandages, and Dean frowns, confused. When did that happen? “Not just pigs?”_

_There’s something sad in the way his brother asks that, but Dean can’t put his finger on why. Sam is looking at him so earnestly though, so after a moment, he brushes off the oddity and continues the lesson. “Yeah, despite the name, this baby can be used on anything,” he goes on, tying another knot. “Makes it pretty dangerous though. You want to be careful that you don’t accidentally set it off after you’re done setting it up.”_

_“That’s why should mark your traps in a way that you or someone else can see them,” Sam says, and Dean glances back at him. His brother looks so old then; his beard, flecked with silver, makes him look like their father. “Right, Dean?”_

_Dean hesitates. This is so weird, but he can’t figure out why. “Yeah,” he replies, and then gives Sam the branch when he reaches for it. His brother holds it in his hands, looking down at it; Dean frowns when he sees tears build up in Sam’s one eye. It scares him a little; confuses him too._

_“Sammy?”_

_“I built traps all over the forest, but I built them for the wrong people,” Sam whispers, and then looks up at him. The tears slip free, and his brother shakes his head, lips trembling. “How could I do that, Dean? Why didn’t I use them on the one person I should have?”_

What? _Dean thinks, before he hears a strange sound. It’s weird, loud whistling sound in the air that he can’t figure it out, and it grows louder and louder and louder. The wind rocks the trees with it, and for the first time, he notices how dark it is. He looks around the forest, and then up at trees towering higher than any tree he’s ever seen. If it wasn’t for the moon in the sky, he’d think they were in a pit or something._

_The sound is only growing louder and Dean tries to figure out what it is. It sounds like... a gunshot?_

_Now Sam’s yelling at him, grabbing him. Dean looks back and sees how wide his brother’s eyes are. “God, Dean,” he babbles, frantic, “I didn’t want any of you to die for this, I didn’t want any of you to die for—”_

_That’s when everything goes white._

* * *

“Dean, _Dean!_ ”

He was lying on the ground, he knew that much, staring out at the boat in the harbor. Then Sam was leaning into view, tears streaming down his face from his good eye. He looked desperate, _frantic;_ Dean wondered why. “Dean, hold on, _hold on!”_

He turned away, Dean’s eyes instinctively following him. Sam started doing something to his leg, but Dean couldn’t feel what it was, watching his brother pull off his jacket and go for his shirt. Then he noticed the blood on the rocks, and how it all seemed to coming from the bloody pulp of muscle and bone that was… _something_.

 _Is that my knee?_ Dean thought, before darkness started crawling into his vision. The last thing he saw was Sam looking at him, his good eye going wide.

“Dean, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, _no_ —”

* * *

_He’s lying in a forest full of corpses and bones._

_There’s a dead werewolf at his side, blank silver eyes staring up at the moon. The remains of a djinn are on his other side; bodies of demons and hellhounds circling him. There are bones from every species scattered around — werewolves and vampires and humans and angels — skulls gathered in piles almost as tall as the trees. Their empty eyes stared down at him, black as pits, whispering to him._

You can’t save anyone, Dean, _they say._ You’re just meat.

_There’s something amongst the bones too; he can sense it there, watching him. It stays just out of sight though, and as hard as he tries to look at it, he can’t. All he can see are glimpses of its massive snake-like body, catch flashes of its sharp, white teeth. It slides around the bones, over the bodies, leaving them smeared black. Its hisses are loud; it’s whispering to him too._

There’s no such things as monsters, Dean.

_He realizes he can’t feel his heartbeat. He can’t feel anything really, except a cold that leaves him chilled to his bones. Is he dead? he wonders. Or was he always this? Nothing but meat and bones..._

_“Dean!”_

_There’s an angel there then, crouching over him, haloed by moonlight. He glows, like there’s light trapped under his skin; his great black wings curling around them both. The angel’s bright blue eyes are wet, and he reaches over to cup his face in both hands, warmth seeping into cold, cold skin._

_He knows the angel, would know him anywhere._ Cas, _he thinks, remembering warm smiles and warm eyes, saving a boy who desperately wanted to be saved..._

_“Dean, Dean,” Cas says through gritted teeth, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Don’t forget, Dean! Don’t forget!”_

Forget? _he wonders, before_ everything _comes back to him_.

Sam turning to him, the fight completely gone from them. _Promise me, Dean._

Jess, her sad smile, the way she touched his cheek. _Take care of yourself, Dean._

Andrea, the other vampires, watching him. _Don’t be afraid_.

Cas, whispering against Dean’s lips. _I want to live for you._

 _Then there’s pain. Pain like nothing he’s ever felt before. He can’t escape it, can’t push it away. It just grows and grows and grows, starting at his knee and going from there. It tears at flesh, devours it, like fire. His_ _body’s nothing more than meat for its hunger._ _It’s eating him_ alive.

 _Cas grasps his face again, but he can barely feel it, can barely hear him, can barely see. There’s just the_ pain, _and he feels a scream ripping up his throat. “Don’t forget, Dean!” the angel sobs. “Don’t forget!”_

_Then Cas is gone, and it’s only the creature then, finally in view. It’s massive, serpent-like body spans the length of the entire graveyard. It has no eyes, no face, just a mouth full of sharp teeth that spread in a familiar grin._

I’d love to hunt you, Dean, _it says_.

Don’t be afraid, _another voice whispers at him, but he can’t help it. Not when he can’t move. Not when he can’t scream._

_All he can do is watch as the monster and all its white teeth comes in mouth-first._

* * *

Voices. Dean could hear voices.

_Blood pressure is 90/60. He’s stabilizing._

_Bleeding’s starting to stop looks like. That knee’s a goner though._

_We’ll bandage it and splint it. It’s all we can do._

There were other voices talking, but Dean had difficulty making out the words, and he didn’t have the energy to either. His head felt so _heavy,_ like he had been woken up before he was ready, and all he wanted was to fall right back to sleep. He couldn’t even open his eyes, that was how tired he was. Damn, he couldn’t ever remember being as _exhausted_ as he was now...

But before he could drift off, he felt something tighten their grip on him (and he suddenly was acutely aware that he had a _body_ ), and then he heard Sam’s voice.

_“Fuck you.”_

His brother’s voice was guttural, like it had been stripped raw, and it hid none of his emotions. Sam was angry, but he was also _terrified._

 _Sammy?_ Dean thought worriedly, when he heard someone chuckle. It was a dark sound, and made Dean think of sharp, white teeth.

“All those little talks we had, Sam, and only a few times did you mention your brother,” it drawled. Dean knew that voice, but from where? “Why is that, I wonder?”

“Stay the _fuck_ away from my brother,” Sam hissed, and Dean felt pressure on his arms again, reminding him again: Oh right, body. It was the strangest sensation; he could _feel_ his body there, but at the same time, he couldn’t, like he was only connected to it by a few strings. It reminded him of vampire venom, minus the hallucinations… Though maybe he had spoken too soon. He was starting to feel something then, the beginning of a throbbing ache that slowly grew stronger. And stronger. And _stronger_ , before it started to _hurt_ and hurt _bad,_ and he couldn’t get away from it—

“He’s coming to, sir.”

Sam gasped, and whispered his name at that. The other person had a grin in his voice as he purred, “Of course he is.”

Dean didn’t know what was happening, why the ache kept _growing_ , moving up his body and leaving stabs of pain as it went. He tried to push it back, but that didn’t work; he tried turning or twisting to get away from it, but his body wouldn’t move. And then it got _worse_ , pain becoming white-hot, and drowning all of his other senses. He couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe,_ his body wouldn’t _move_ — God, what was going on? What was happening to him?!

As the pain began to take over, his mind flashed back, _remembering_ —

_He’s lying in a forest of corpses, and an angel is leaning over him, cupping his cheeks. “Don’t forget, Dean,” he sobs. “Don’t forget!”_

God, how could he? It was _everywhere,_ like fire.

_“I didn’t want any of you to die for this, Dean!” Sam is yelling at him, before the world goes white._

Dean could hear Sam calling his name again, but he couldn’t answer. All he could do was feel the pain and _remember_.

 _A man aiming a rifle at him… No, not a man, a_ monster. The _monster._

 _Then his knee is_ exploding, _and everything goes black_.

God, he had been shot. _He had been shot._

His body jerked at the memory, and the pain that came with that made him see white again. A scream ripped up his throat; he was vaguely aware of Sam calling his name as his entire body thrashed to escape the agony. He twisted, arched his back, tried yelling for help. It was like _fire_ — he was being burned _alive—_

Somebody grabbed his arms and pinned him down then; Dean became aware of a faint slide of something in the crook of his elbow. Then _relief_ , _sweet relief_ , coursing through his body like cooling liquid, drowning out the flames as it went. Dean gasped for air when it reached his lungs, sucking in mouthful after mouthful, his heart going off like a jackhammer. The cooling feeling traveled on; whatever it was — some sort of pain medication? he wondered, when his brain worked again — hitting his legs next.

It could only do so much there — Dean realizing that was where it was coming from — the medication dampening down the pain enough that it wasn’t _crippling_. By the time it was finally manageable, he was exhausted again, soaked in sweat and stomach lurching uncomfortably. He was woozy too, but was finally able to open his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks when he did.

The world was one big blur that _slowly_ came into focus. The first person he saw was Sam, his brother cradling him against his bare chest as his own tears streamed from his good eye. “It’s okay, Dean, it’s okay,” he whispered as Dean swallowed around his raw throat, tasting blood and bile at the back of it. Sam whispered another _it’s okay_ as he brushed Dean’s sweaty hair from his forehead, his other arm trembling even as he held him tight. He was upset, but Dean didn’t know why... in fact, he wasn’t even sure where he was or what had happened. He could hear waves, smell the ocean; he remembered a voice too, yelling at him to… Not forget?

“Sammy?” he croaked out, hoping his brother would understand all that he was asking. That only made Sam’s breath hitch though, a fresh wave of tears filling his good eye.

"It’s _okay,_ Dean _,”_ he whispered.

There was some sort of warning in Sam’s voice, but Dean couldn’t really think of why that was. He felt a new pressure on his arm, and his eyes slowly looked over. It was a demon, withdrawing a syringe from his vein; Dean frowned slowly confusion as she leaned back, revealing the other demon who was down by a pair of legs. That one was working with the most extensive medical kit Dean had ever seen, and he might have even been impressed by if he was thinking clearly. For now, all he could do was wonder who the demon was treating on the ground, their one leg _streaked_ with blood. The source seemed to be all coming from the person’s knee, wrapped up in dark-red bandages, a tourniquet on their upper thigh. Even as groggy as he was, Dean’s medical mind assessed what he was looking at, and had to sum it up in two words: Not good.

It took far too long to realize he was looking at his own leg.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam whispered as Dean felt his breathing speed up, heart starting to go off again. It made the fog in his head slowly clear up, and he started seeing all the things he missed before. Like the two tourniquets on his thigh for one: one haphazardly made out a shirt that too high up his leg, the other a professional one in the right place. He couldn’t think too much on that — wasn’t Sammy missing his shirt though? — his attention drawn over when the demon started unwrapping the bandages from his knee. It was too surreal; he almost couldn’t process what he was looking at: Not the pool of blood it was lying in, and definitely not the _giant hole_ where his kneecap used to be.

The world spun again, his vision going out of focus, Sam’s _it’s okay_ doing nothing for him. Dean felt an inexplicable urge to reach over and touch his knee, wondering if he was just imagining the cavity that was in it. The muscle reduced to pulp, the shattered bone, the blood _everywhere_ — it couldn’t be real right? Maybe he was hallucinating it? (He had hallucinated stranger things.) He had to see, to feel for himself, but the wave of dizziness and pain that came when he tried to sit up had Sam tightening his grip on him to keep him down. “It’s okay, Dean,” his brother stressed again.

“My knee, Sammy,” he protested, and his brother sucked in air through his teeth, voice shaky when he replied.

“I-I know, Dean. I know.”

He ended up just staring at it as the demons cleaned it up, brain still just trying to _understand_. It couldn’t be gone, he kept thinking. It _couldn’t_ be. His knee had been through a lot as it was, a staple of pain and discomfort from the moment it had been injured. He had known even then it would never be the same again, but he had pushed it anyway: up and down hills and mountains, miles and miles over rough terrain, forcing it to run when he could barely _walk_. He hadn’t cared what condition it would be left in, as all that mattered was finding Sam. But it couldn’t just be _gone_ now.

God, his knee had been _shot_ , he realized then. And it had nearly killed him too — they had had to put a tourniquet on his leg so he didn’t _bleed out_. There was no saving his knee now, no patchwork they could do to keep it in one piece until it healed — not with shattered bones and muscles and a broken _artery_. It was _gone._

And it was all because of one person who was standing in front of them, Dean tensing when he suddenly noticed him. Slowly, he looked up at Dick Roman, the monster in his hunting outfit from earlier — boots, long coat, tie and all — large rifle in his hands. There was no sign that he had taken a bullet to his shoulder just that very morning; he looked the same as he always did, an amused smirk on his lips, his eyes making Dean want to freeze up and hide. Whatever was on Dean’s face — shock or fear or both — made the monster’s smirk grow, a hint of white teeth revealed when he did. “Good of you to join us, Dean,” he drawled then, dark eyes narrowing in amusement. “How’s the knee?”

It didn’t seem possible for his heart to go any faster, Dean looking around and realizing the situation they were in, how it was _not good._ The last thing he remembered before he had been shot was Sam and Bobby successfully pinning the demons down while he made a run for the crevice, but the tables had turned since then. There were two demons working on his knee, which Dean didn’t understand _why_ — why keep him alive when he had been as good as dead? — while the other three demons had their rifles trained on them. Sam was cradling him, while Bobby stood close by, hands up in the air in surrender. He was looking worriedly between Dean and the demons, though his gaze was drawn over to the dark shape that was circling the group of them. It red eyes gleamed in the lights from the boat, still out in the harbor, the hellhound letting out a snarl when it passed Bobby.

There was someone apart from the group, being watched by one of the demons, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat when he recognized him. It was _Cas_ , half slumped against the rocks, his non-injured wing helping keep him upright. In the light from the boat, Dean could see the sling he had made out of Sam’s old shirt for Cas’s broken wing was wet and smeared with dirt, like he had been moving through mud and water. And maybe he had been — his feathers were clearly wet, making Dean wonder if he had been in the raft, and had crawled his way through surf and over rocks to see what was wrong. And that meant he had seen _Dean:_ The tears in Cas’s eyes certainly said so, the fear in them only matched when he looked over at the monster.

And there was damn good reason to be scared, with Dick there... But what was far more scary was that he _hadn’t_ done anything yet, Dean thought. He hadn’t flat-out killed them, he hadn’t torn them to pieces, he wasn’t _eating_ them. Instead, he had clearly ordered his demons to save Dean (and _why? _Why had he done that?),__ and he was just standing there, watching them with an amused smirk. It only grew too, like he knew what Dean was thinking or was simply entertained by him trying to wrap his head around what was going on. _ _What was he _doing_? __ Dean wondered. They were defenseless, they didn’t stand a chance. What was he waiting for?

“I’m pleased as punch that you could join us, Dean,” Dick said then, as if they had been talking the entire time. Dean felt Sam tense up, grip tightening on Dean; when he glanced over, his brother was glaring up the monster, jaw tight. “Your brother and I were right in the middle of an important business meeting, and clearly, as an interested third-party, you’ll want to have your say, I’m sure.”

Dean frowned, confused — what? — but Dick didn’t seem to notice or care. “I presume you know the details of the original contract between Sam and I, don’t you?” he continued, smirk growing a little when Sam growled through his gritted teeth. “If anyone else happened to find out about my little operation here after your brother turned himself in, you, your sister-in-law and nieces would die?”

Dean really didn’t need a reminder of that; he winced while Sam grew even more tense.

“The agreement was rendered null and void when you came here, Dean,” Dick went on, looking from Sam down to him. “But considering you broke the contract unwittingly, I’m open to a renegotiation of the original terms of the deal.”

 _What?_ Dean thought, while Sam let out another hiss.

“ _No_ ,” he spat, eyes narrowing dangerously at Dick. His voice was still hoarse, but there was no hiding how his anger was barely masking his fear. He held onto Dean so tight, Dean’s ribs protested and it made the ache from his knee flare up. “No more deals. No more agreements. If you’re going to kill us, just _kill us_.”

Dick grinned, all teeth. “Now Sam. That is not how we communicate from a place of yes,” he said, and then cocked his head, looking Sam up and down. “Or do you have no interest in seeing your wife and children again?”

Sam stiffened. Dean grew confused again — wait, what was Dick going on about? — watching as Dick’s gaze lifted up and out toward the ocean. He was looking at the boat, Dean realized, Dick’s smirk fading a little. Then, it was back in full force as he turned back to them.

“Here’s my offer,” he said, eyes fixing to Dean’s “Full immunity for Sam’s wife and children. I’ll even let your brother and the others leave the island. Consider that a bonus, Dean. A reward for all your hard work.”

 _What?_ Dean thought again. Had he just said he’d would kill Jess and the girls? That he’d _let them go_?

For a moment, Dean wondered if the pain was making him hallucinate, or he had fallen asleep and was dreaming again. But even the demons were glancing over at Dick, pausing from bandaging and splinting his knee, so maybe he _had_ heard that right. But that didn’t help him understand it any, and Sam’s utterly blank expression wasn’t giving him anything to go on. What was going on?

It was Bobby who ended up voicing the questions that Dean had.

“You’ll just let us go?” he muttered gruffly, and Dick glanced over at him. Bobby’s brow was furrowed from under his hat, hands still in the air. “Just like that.”

“There will be _some_ conditions, of course,” Dick replied, grin all teeth again. “I’ll be sending you with a personal escort. They’ll be there to ensure you reach your final destination, and stress the _importance_ of not talking.”

Dean’s head spun a little again, and not just from the pain anymore. He just couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he glanced at his brother, Sam sharing his reaction. Bobby wasn’t having it though, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re willing to bet your entire reputation on the off-chance we happen to keep our mouths shut?”

That made Dick chuckle, a dark sound. “Come now, Bob, who would _believe_ you? You, the known alcoholic? Sam, the disgraced ex-district attorney? A mentally ill angel? A family of vampirs? Who would believe they were trapped on this island, evidence of which my people has been meticulously destroying since Dean arrived? Sam’s evidence was destroyed long ago as well, so the only story you’d tell is of a creature from angelic legend hunted and preyed on them for years.”

Bobby frowned — and right, Dean hadn’t exactly had time to tell him Dick wasn’t exactly human — and Dick shrugged slightly, his smirk returning. “And think of the alternative, Bob. For one, your adopted son’s wife and children dead. And there is that pretty little sherriff friend of yours in South Dakota; it’d be a shame if something happened to her…”

That wasn’t a casual threat, but Dean still didn’t understand why they were even _having_ this conversation — that they were fucking _bargaining_ when Dick could just _kill them_. He couldn’t seriously believe _no one_ would believe them, could he? Dean wondered. One had to only look at them, and they would see the horrors they had been through. And when all of them had the same story to tell…?

What the hell game was Dick playing? Was this some sort of trick? Dean frowned again, watching as Dick looked over to the boat again, as if checking it was still there. And that was what made everything click for Dean, realizing then what the monster was trying to do.

_He was trying to get on the boat._

Sam and him exchanged glances, coming to the same conclusion at the same time. Dick — though Dean figured he’d send his demons in — didn’t have any way of getting on the boat and it was too far away to be reached by bullets, Dean had ensured that. The monster had to know the vampires were already on it too, and that had had to put Dick in a tight spot. The demons couldn’t just take the raft and go for it: Dean knew Andrea would just sail away if she saw anyone but them coming. Same if Dick just killed them (which he could so easily do); the matriarch would leave then too. They would tell the world what happened, and Dick could pretend all he wanted that no one would believe them: People _would_.

But if the demons had them as hostages, the vampires would be less likely to leave them behind, giving Dick’s people a way on...

Dean’s heart pounded again. All this bullshit about letting them go, and no one believing them — that was Dick playing cards, trying to seize control of the situation again. But what he was doing was so _obvious_ … Had the boat arriving really thrown him off his game that much? No, he thought. That couldn’t be his only plan — he had had to have another trick up his sleeve that would ensure they wouldn’t just call his bluff. He had promised immunity to Jess and the girls for a reason… To make them compliant until they got on the boat, maybe? Ensure the moment they were on the boat, they didn’t throw the demons right off?

Sam was clearly thinking along the same lines, and Dean could see he was _calculating_. (If it was just them against the demons on the boat, they could subdue them, couldn’t they? Sam, Bobby and Andrea working together to pull it off? The demons wouldn’t stand a chance, would they?)

It was a gamble, but one they could fucking _win._ “And what’s this going to cost us exactly?” Sam asked then, and Dean frowned. Wait, what other cost would there be…? The monster smirked, and then his eyes slid back down to Dean.

Dean felt his breath catch in his throat.

The monster wanted _him._

Sam went absolutely still — like that was the last thing he had expected — while Dean’s heart started pounding again. It made perfect sense though: Why else would have Dick kept him alive? Hell, why had he shot Dean in the knee when he could have so easily shot him in the head? (And sure, he had almost killed him by shooting out his knee, but he had had the demons there to treat them right away it seemed like.) Dick had wanted leverage to keep Sam and Bobby compliant until he could put a new plan into motion… And was going to ensure they remained compliant too.

But that wasn’t just it, was it? Dean found himself looking into Dick’s dark eyes, remembering something from his dreams. Something lurking in the graveyard, a monster whose entire head was only a mouthful of teeth.

_I’d love to hunt you, Dean._

Dean’s heart thudded. Before, that would have _terrified_ him: The thought of being hunted down and eaten alive. (Being just _meat_.) Worse, being hunted down and eaten alive by the _monster_. But he had learned not to be afraid since then; Knew it was important so he could be who he needed to be. And who had he thought he needed to be?

 _Someone who could do anything…_ Including someone who could and would gladly die if it meant getting everyone home and safe.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered.

Dick’s eyes narrowed as he grinned, while Sam’s entire body jerked as he looked down at him. “What?” he cried, and Dean swallowed, avoiding looking at his brother. Bobby too, the old man gaping at him. Sam squeezed “Dean, _no_. _No_ , _no, no, no_. This is a trick, Dean, this is a _trick._ ”

Dean already knew that, though. He wasn’t exactly one hundred percent with this plan: The thought of sending Sam, Bobby and Cas with demons, who would try to kill them once they were on the boat. But the alternative was _far_ worse: And that was watching the monster tear them from limb to limb. He didn’t want that; hell, _Dick_ didn’t want that.

What they both wanted was their people on the boat, albeit for completely different reasons. And Dean knew if _anyone_ stood a chance of stopping the demons before they tried to kill them, it would be Sam and the others. And they could stop them, unlike the monster...

What that all meant for him, though, staying here with Dick? He decided not to think about it.

That didn’t mean Dean couldn’t have his own terms, right? (Not that he had much of an actual hand to play in all this. He couldn’t even _move_.) “On one condition, though,” he told Dick, who narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “You don’t have your demons kill them. They’re just escorts, like you said.”

 _“No, Dean, no—”_ Sam hissed while Dick chuckled. That he was calling him out on it didn’t seem to bother the Dick any. If anything, it just seemed to please him.

“I admire your gumption, Dean. We’ll see how that works out for you,” he drawled, amused. That wasn’t exactly a “yes,” but he looked up at Sam then, his smirk fading a little for a sneer. “But our arrangement is off if your brother tries to fight back or attempts to rescue you, Dean. Do you understand that, Sam? Your wife, your children: Their lives are forfeit if you do.”

Insurance, Dean thought. Dick knew there was a chance his demons would fail then, and he was gaming it in his favor… And if Sam succeeded, was Dean the consolation prize then?

Sam didn’t appear to hear it. He was shaking so hard, Dean thought he might come apart at the seams; before he could stop him, his brother burst. “No. _No_!” he shouted as he leaned forward, tears falling from his eyes. He looked up at the monster, desperation making his voice guttural. “Take me instead. I’m the one you really want! I’m the one who let this all happen; exposed you in the first place! Take me. Let Dean _go. Please._ ”

The plea echoed along the beach, all of Sam’s heart in it. It fell on unsympathetic ears, however; it only made the monster’s lip lift in disgust as he looked him up and down. “You’re cute, Sam, trying to pull that now. But as I like to say: Cute don’t quite hack it.” Sam’s face fell, and Dick sneered. “You had _your_ chance to kill me, and you didn’t take it — you had the spark, and you let it go out. I only want the _best_ , and you are not it.”

That Dean fell into that category wasn’t exactly comforting, but there was a calm settling over him. He didn’t know what Dick had planned for him, and he really didn’t care — but he needed Sam to not lose focus.

That was easier said than done: His brother was already breaking down, starting to cry again. By the time Dean turned to him, Sam’s face was a mess of tears, and he was shaking his head before Dean could even open his mouth.

“No, Dean, you can’t ask me to do this,” he pleaded, grip tightening around him. “You can’t ask me to leave you behind. You _can’t_.”

Dean had to though, even though he knew it would _kill_ his brother. He had to reassure him the best he could, the only way he knew how to. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he whispered, and with some effort, managed to lift up and touch his brother’s wrist. “It’s okay.”

“ _No,_ Dean, I can’t just _leave_ you.”

”I’ll be fine,” Dean reassured, lie that it was. “You have to do this, Sam. You _have_ to. This is the only way...”

 _You’ll survive,_ he couldn’t say, not with Dick listening in, and the demons watching. And they were watching, black eyes difficult to read — and maybe Dean was hallucinating a little again, because they almost looked _sad_. “You have to do this, Sam, for Jess and the girls. You _need_ to get back to them.

“But you’ll _die._ ” Sam cried, wet hazel eyes meeting his. And in them, Dean saw all of his brother’s fears and guilt. _I didn’t want any of you to die for this,_ he had told Dean once, and the thought alone had nearly made Sam fall apart. There was no avoiding it, though; all he could do was lessen the blow.

“Then let me die knowing you’re safe, Sammy,” he whispered.

His brother instantly went still, eyes going wide. He looked like he was eight years old again and the world was falling apart around him. Dean swallowed painfully at the reminder, but forced a smile for his brother. “You can do this, Sammy. You can do anything. Remember what I said earlier? You have to _fight_. And you do that by getting everyone _home,_ okay?”

Sam let out a whimpering sound, a fresh wave of tears filling his eyes. But it seemed to be working; Dean could see it in Sam’s expression that maybe he had gotten through to his brother a little. And maybe it was enough to help Sam leave him behind without utterly destroying him, to take Bobby and Cas and—

He trailed off mid-thought.

_... Cas._

Dean’s eyes drifted over without thinking, looking at the angel. And Cas was staring right back at him, the horror on his face saying he knew exactly what Dean had agreed to.

_“We’re going home.”_

_“We are.”_

Dean had already said his goodbyes to Cas before this, but that had been _before_ the boat had arrived. After that, they had kissed, and it had been a promise within a promise: That they had each other, that things were going to be okay, that they could do anything _together…_ Even leave this island.

 _I want to live for you_.

Dean swallowed painfully, watching the tears slip down Cas’s cheeks. A familiar feeling was coming back to him, the worry he had felt about how Cas had chosen to live for him until he learned how to do it on his own… And how his guilt could consume him if Dean didn’t make it. Dean had wanted him to live for something else so that wouldn’t happen; that was why he had begged Cas to just _live_. And Cas had agreed to it... Though he had been half asleep at the time and passed out right afterward. Did he remember saying he would?

It scared Dean that he might not.

Judging by the look of utter _devastation_ on Cas’s face, he hadn’t.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered then, suddenly needing to do... _something_. He hadn’t thought about it before, but now all he could think about was Cas _alone_ , his guilt keeping him from his family, of him turning back into what he had been before. (Just an emotionless shell of an angel.) Dean couldn’t let that happen, he _couldn’t_ , and there was only person who could ensure that. He needed Sam to look after Cas, to make sure he was okay... but he didn’t know how to put that into words for his brother. How could he sum everything up that he needed his brother to do — and not just for Cas, but _altogether_ —

The words came to Dean then, just a whisper in the back of his mind.

 _Promise me, Dean_.

His heart thudded in his chest, and he found himself gripping Sam’s arm. His eyes slowly traveled up to his brother’s, Sam looking from Cas down to him, growing confused and worried by whatever look was on his face.

He knew the words he wanted though. “Promise me, Sammy,” he whispered, and Sam’s breath hitched.

_If anything happens to me, promise me you’ll look out for him._

When Sam had first said those words to him, Dean hadn’t known what to make of them; hadn’t understood why his brother would ask him that. (And God, he understood now. God, how he understood.) They had double meaning: His brother was giving him something to live for, and that was to take care of Jess and the girls; to not look for him if anything did happen to him. That aspect of that promise — even though Dean had ended up breaking it — had left him paralyzed after Sam disappeared. He had inadvertently done what Sam wanted, in the end…

He could see the same thing happening to Sam: Starting with the look of realization that crossed his brother’s eyes as he realized what Dean was making him promise to do. And it left his brother paralyzed, just like he had been, staring down at him that he didn’t even notice when Dick directed his demons to take him out of his brother’s arms. He barely noticed the demon who approached Sam to get him to his feet, but Dean did. Her dark eyes met Dean’s as she bent down to grab Sam’s arm, Dean freezing when he recognized her. Her neck was heavily bandaged from where Andrea nearly had torn her neck out, skin an unhealthy pale shade. Her eyes were still the same though, one word fill their depths: Meat. _You can’t stop him,_ she had said once about the monster, _No one can._

As she grabbed his arm (and Dean was left utterly confused by the look in her eyes), Sam didn’t react, just staring at Dean.

Cas, however, had the complete opposite reaction.

He screamed his rage out, and the demon who had grabbed him almost dropped him. And with good reason: Dean watched as Cas’s pupils slitted and every feather he had bristled. His non-injured wing flared out, and he started to rise to his feet, eyes on Dean and Dean only. All his righteous grief radiated off, giving him the strength to stagger forward toward him, arm reaching out—

He never saw the blow to the back of his head.

It wasn’t enough to knock him out, but the fall hurt Cas, and took most of the fight out of him. Dean watched as he curled around himself, eyes squeezing shut in pain as he trembled violently. But that didn’t stop him for long, as he uncurled himself, and his free hand, now shaking, reached out toward him again. “Dean, _no,_ ” he whispered, wing flapping weakly. His eyes were red from tears, anguish making his voice raw. “No, Dean, _no._ ”

 _Just live,_ Dean thought at him as the demon gathered him up, the other half-dragging Sam toward the boat, with Bobby being pushed along with the butt of a rifle. Cas’s wail of grief echoed across the beach, and Dean had to squeeze his eyes shut to contain everything inside of him.

_Just live._

* * *

_"Don't forget, Dean," the angel whispers to him. "Don't forget."_


	37. Chapter 37

* * *

_“I wanted the ideal animal to hunt,” explained the general. “So I said, ‘What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?’ And the answer was, of course, ‘It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason.’”_

_“But no animal can reason,” objected Rainsford._

_“My dear fellow,” said the general, “there is one that can.”_

_—_ The Most Dangerous Game

* * *

Dean had been a brother, a lover, a soldier, a medic, a man, a human.

Now? Now he was just _meat_.

None of that mattered however as he crawled, hopped on one leg and pushed himself from tree-to-tree through the forest. He could feel every bump and ridge of the wood under his fingers; hear every rustle of bough and ferns in the wind. He could smell wet dirt and bark and coming rain; taste every blood-laced tear that slid into his mouth. When the moon shone through the moving clouds, his eyes took in every tree and rock, every flicker of movement. When the clouds covered up the moon’s light and everything went dark, Dean knew one thing, and one thing only.

He was going to die.

 _So what do you say, Dean?_ Dick had said to him with his shark-like grin. _One last hunt, just between the two of us._

Dean ran into a tree, fingers digging into the bark to anchor himself as a shuddering gasp left his lips. The pain he was in was dampened by adrenaline, but his body was shaking _violently_ and his vision kept blurring in and out. It had taken everything in him just to get onto his feet, but the hopping from tree to tree, log to log, dragging his bad leg with him, was taking his toll. His muscles screamed at him in protest, but the moment he hit one of his targets, he was already searching for his next one to hop over to as quickly as he could.

He had to keep moving, because the second the monster caught up with him, it was all over. And he couldn’t die yet, he _couldn’t_ ; he had to kill Dick first, though how he was going to do that, he didn’t know. He had no weapons, he could barely move, the monster was going to _kill_ him and _eat_ him _—_

There was the sound of twigs snapping, and there Dick was, standing amongst the trees with dark eyes zeroed in on Dean. Heart stopping, Dean frantically pushed himself off the tree to go for the log he had been aiming for. He made it one hop, two, before his throat was grabbed and he was thrown back against the trunk, head smacking _hard_ against the bark. Mixed with the searing flames from his bad knee being jostled around, Dean saw white.

He could hear the monster chuckling as everything started to go black. But as Dean felt himself slipping under, he thought he could hear another voice.

 _Dean,_ it called to him. _Dean!_

* * *

**Earlier**

* * *

Dean watched the boat sail away until it was just a distant dot of light on the horizon, before exhaustion and pain got the better of him. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he passed out after sending out one last pray to whomever might be listening.

_Please be okay._

His dreams weren’t pleasant, filled with monsters lurking in graveyards and Cas crying over him, begging him not to forget. ( _Forget what?_ he could never ask.) He woke up several times: once in a cold sweat, shaking so badly he thought he would fall apart; again when in his knee started burning white-hot and he came back to consciousness screaming and thrashing. The remaining demons were there both times, quickly giving him more pain medication that pretty much knocked him out again.

The next time he woke up, he regained consciousness slowly. He was still freezing-cold, his throat was raw from screaming and dehydration, but the pain in his leg was manageable at the very least. Sometime in between bouts of consciousness, he had been half propped against a tree trunk, with his knee propped up on a rock. It had been completely wrapped up in a splint too, effectively immobilizing it. What the point of that was, he didn’t know — it wasn’t like his knee could be saved — but that thought faded when he noticed the hellhound lying in the grass close by.

For once, the dog paid him no attention: Its eyes and ears were instead pointed toward where Dean was starting to hear voices. He looked over as well, noticing the two remaining demons standing close by, rifles in hand. And between them was Dick, staring out at the ocean.

“Any word?” he asked then, but the usual amused tilt to his voice was gone. He sounded… _irritated._

The demons exchanged glances like they sensed that too, before the female replied, “No, sir.”

“So Sam can still be a thorn in my side…” the monster muttered darkly, and Dean’s heart leapt.

Did that mean what he thought it meant? he wondered frantically. That Sam and the others had managed to defeat the demons who had been sent with him to the boat? That everyone was going to make it to safety? It had to be — what else _could_ it mean?

The wave of relief that went through Dean at that was even better than the pain medication they had been giving him, He slumped against the tree, squeezing his eyes shut to contain the tears of joy. They had done it, he kept thinking. They had _done it._ Sam, Cas, Bobby, and the vampires were going to make it, and he had never been more thankful. It was all he had ever wanted, and if he could have died from happiness right then, he would have.

But he wasn’t going to have an easy death, he already knew that. It didn’t matter though — this was who he was, willing to do anything for his family. And that meant he didn’t even react when Dick approached him, the feeling of euphoria leaving him a little brazen. He wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. Why did he have to be?

“So is this it?” he asked, voice a little slurred from exhaustion, when Dick bent down to his level. From his side, the hellhound whimpered and slinked away, tail between its legs, but Dean barely noticed. “Are you going to eat me now?” 

There was no use beating around the bush about where this was all leading to. Besides, Dean was friggin’ _tired_ , and if he was going to die, might as well get on with it.

But Dick wasn’t going along with that plan; Dean’s acceptance seemed to amuse him, if anything. “No, not yet, Dean,” he replied and in the moonlight, Dean could see the monster’s pupils were slitted. “I like to play with my food first.”

 _Hardly a surprise_ , Dean thought, and then huffed, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to do that?” he shot back, which made Dick chuckle.

“Sadly, no, but I did eat her, in her defense.” Dean tried not to look disgusted, and the monster’s lips slid toward a smirk as he added, “A quirk of my species: We have a tendency to cannibalize each other. It ensures only the strongest of us survive.”

“Seems like a good way to wipe yourselves out so everyone forgets you exist,” Dean pointed out. Dick lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and another smirk.

“We’re animals, Dean. Nothing more than our instincts,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Even if you fight tooth-and-nail to deny it.”

Dean was going to die, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight _that._ It didn’t matter that the monster had made them believe: Sam, Cas, the vampires, they were _not_ animals. “That’s because it’s bullshit,” he growled, and Dick grinned again.

“We’ll see,” he replied smoothly, and then glanced over when one of the demons approached. In her hand was a phone, Dick letting out an ‘ah’ sound when he looked down at it. “What is it, Susan?” he asked.

“Your yacht has arrived, sir,” the woman on the other end replied.

“ _Wundabar_. Have my personal items brought onboard, and tell our captain to prepare to set sail within the next two hours.” Dick paused, and then his gaze flicked back to Dean. He licked his lips and then added, “Call Chef Fieri, too. I feel like barbecue.”

Dean couldn’t help but snort. He was going to be _barbecue_? “Little late in the year for that, isn’t it?” he asked, and Dick smirked, gesturing the demon away.

“Barbecue is a treat, Dean,” he answered, and Dean fought to not shiver in disgust. “Most of my kills don’t have enough meat on them, though their thin cuts make for excellent grilling. But meat like yours, with so much of it…” He licked his lips again. “I’m going to _savor_ your meat, Dean. After all, you are special.”

Dean almost replied with _I hope you choke on my bones and die,_ but the last part made him frown. Dick had said that something like that earlier: That he only wanted “the best.” It was what he tried to create on the island, Sam had explained to him: People who would give him the most challenge when he hunted them. How Dean fit in that category, he didn’t know; what kind of challenge would he anyway, what with his fucking busted knee? Not that he _wanted_ to be Dick’s idea of _special_...

“It’s remarkable, for a human,” Dick went on, “Don’t get me wrong, Dean, I find your species _adorable —_ mindless cattle, with your blogs and your bacon obsessions. But you do insist that you are all unique, gifted, special little snowflakes, when the majority of you are not good for much ‘til you’re dipped in garlic sauce. Some of you _are_ different, of course: You have what I call the spark. And when you have that, oh, what your species is capable of…”

 _The spark._ Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. What Dick was always looking for in people, Sam had told him. What he was trying to _create_ in others. What was that anyway?

“What you can _accomplish_ ,” Dick continued, “I really think you guys have spunk. You're like a planet of just the cutest little engines that could. Some of you revolutionize the world. Some of you invent ways to utterly destroy it, given the chance. Some of you are absolutely brilliant, like your brother. So much _potential_ in those of you that have the spark.”

The monster turned back at him then, and the look in his eyes unnerved Dean. “But you, Dean, you’re utterly _unique,”_ he purred, and Dean frowned again. “You don’t just have the spark… You _are_ the spark. And do you know why?”

He was the _what?_ Dean wondered, and then shivered in disgust again. He didn’t know what he disliked more: Dick calling him _special,_ or that he was something the monster _wanted_ in other people. It made him deeply uncomfortable, not that he wanted Dick to see it. “I’m going to go with my strength of character,” he muttered sarcastically, and Dick smirked again.

“You’re on the mark there, Dean,” he replied, before he leaned in. Dean tensed as he did, the monster whispering into his ear, “It’s because you know you’re _nothing.”_

Dean felt his smile slip. Dick pulled back, his eyes boring into his own, lips parted in a grin that was all teeth. “And that makes you able to do _anything_ ,” he murmured.

 _I’m nothing,_ echoed in Dean’s mind, and it took several tries before he could manage a swallow.

He had thought he might be nothing for so long that that shouldn’t have affected him how it did. But it did, _a lot_ , and Dean was left confused and uncomfortable again. So much had changed since then: He had accepted the fact that he was nothing after Andrea told him to, but there had been a promise within it — that he wouldn’t be once he figured out who he needed to be. And then the boat had come and Cas had told him, _You saved me_ ; after that, Dean had felt capable of doing _anything_...

But _that_ was what Dick said made him _nothing._ That was what made him special in the monster’s eyes.

Dean swallowed again, feeling his body start to shake again. Was that what he was? he wondered. Was he still a _nothing_? (What the others had seen in him… Had that been just a lie? But he had _felt_ it: Hope, righteousness, conviction. He had thought he figured out who he was...)

Dick was watching him, gaze flickering from his throat back to his eyes, and his smirk widened. “I looked over your history, Dean. Fascinating stuff. Your mother’s death when you were a child, your father alcoholism with, and I quote, _a bit of a temper;_ your brother’s borderline genius and how he received all the attention for it. But with all that, Dean, not once did you feel sorry for yourself, did you? No, no, of course not. Do you know why that is?”

Dean felt tears prick his eyes, and then it was far too difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat. He knew the answer, and Dick’s lips parted in another toothy grin. “That’s right, Dean. The world told you that you were nothing, and you accepted it. No special-snowflake Dean Winchester is there? And that’s what makes you the spark, Dean. What I strive so hard to bring out in my animals, you carry inside you, day-in and day-out.”

Dean finally managed another swallow, but the only words that could come out of his mouth were, “And you compare that to people who can change the world?”

He shouldn’t have said that, for it only let the monster know he was getting under his skin. And Dick chuckled darkly, a sound that sent chills down Dean’s spine. “Oh, you are _adorable_ , Dean,” he purred, his eyes gleaming when moonlight caught on them. “But give yourself some credit, would you? Look at everything you’ve accomplished!”

He gestured around them, Dean glancing down the beach where he could see the two remaining demons tossing bodies onto a large fire and gathering up fallen weapons. “You managed to piece together your brother’s whereabouts on what?” Dick explained. “A few clues my people didn’t know to destroy? You managed to infiltrate my island, escape my holding facility — which no one has managed before, mind — and then you made it out onto my island itself with no idea what you were facing. From there, you managed to survive long enough to get your brother, your angel friend and the others to safety... With some credit to your Bob Singer friend, of course.”

He turned back to Dean with a dark smile. “Point being, Dean, you did that. And what did you rely on? Your own instincts. Your _gut,_ as you kids say. That was it. Pure animal, through and through.”

Dean swallowed again. The scary thing was that Dick wasn’t _wrong —_ so much of what he had done had been based on his gut. But the idea of it was also _stupid_ — Dean had only made it as far as he did because of _everyone else_. Cas and Andrea and Sophia and Sam and Bobby, they had been the ones who had done everything; Dean had just been lucky not to get them all killed in the meantime. But the fact that Dick gave _him_ credit for all that was absolutely ridiculous, and it made him snort weakly, muttering, “If all it took were _my_ instincts to bring you down, then you have a serious fuckin’ problem.”

Dick grinned, dark and utterly delighted, Dean unnerved by the sight of it. “Your self-deprecation, Dean. How I love it,” he purred, and Dean felt his back stiffen a little. (Dick was getting to him, he realized. That probably wasn’t a good thing.) “But you are special, Dean. It usually takes months to get my animals to where you are now. Even with a relatively high success rate, it’s a long manufacturing process before I have a fully realized product that I want to hunt.”

Dean was confused, in a lot of pain, and wrestling with a resurgence of all his self-doubts, but he felt that all fade when he heard that. In its place came _anger_ , because he knew what went into that process — he had seen it in everyone he loved or called friend. For Dick to sum it up as a _manufacturing process..._ “Call it what it is, _Dick_ ,” he snarled, shaking for entirely different reason. “You torture and _murder_ innocent people for your sick pleasure.”

“Torture is such a _strong_ word. This is all about efficiency, Dean,” the monster replied with another grin, and Dean felt his anger grow. “Do you know what the two most basic instincts in the world are? Flight and fight. You’d be surprised how the concept of _humanity_ affects that. I remember when it first happened: You saw a forty-percent brain-size reduction rate in all first-generation species across the board, and flight-or-fight response? It was like working with spooked cattle _._ It presented quite the technical challenge for my team, I must say.”

Dean glared daggers at him, while Dick hummed thoughtfully then. “But perhaps it was because I never had the perfect template to work with. I imagine the process will be a lot faster now, now that I know what I’m looking to create. Thanks for that, Dean.”

For all the things that unnerved Dean before, _that_ was the worst thing. Dick wanted to torture people so they’d be more like _him_? It was an awful thought: He wouldn’t wish the horror, confusion or crippling self-doubt he had felt on anyone — not on others like Cas or Sam or the vampires, especially the kids. The very idea that Dick would do that made him sick to his stomach, Dean having to fight another shudder of disgust. No, he couldn’t do that to anyone, he thought, he _couldn’t_ —

_Don’t forget, Dean, an angel whispers to him, Don’t forget._

Dean went still at that, remembering his dream. No, Cas was right. He had to remember that _wasn’t_ going to happen, he thought. Sam was going to make it back safely now, and once he did, he would bring Dick down for good. No more people were coming to this island, not if Sam could help it — and that meant no more people were going to be tortured or murdered or left to starve and die or forced to do awful things and make difficult choices. No more people would ever feel like they were _nothing_ , or be ever forced to feel like Dean had felt. And he didn’t have to feel that way either, he realized. Dick thought he was special because he was nothing? Bullshit, he _was_ something — others had seen something in him; Cas had said _he saved him_ — and he could do _anything_.

And realizing that made a surge of hope and conviction go through him, all fears gone. He looked back up at the monster and sneered right in his face.

“You’re never going to hurt anyone _ever_ again.”

Dick’s smile was dark, and Dean hated that, that he didn’t even seem _worried_. So either he was delusional or pretending he wasn’t bothered; pretending that he hadn’t gambled and lost when he sent Sam, Bobby and Cas onto that boat. Dean was betting it was the latter, and like hell if he wasn’t going to remind him of it. Why not get under the monster’s skin too?

“It’s over, you know that, don’t you, Dick?” he mocked, and Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly. “For all your grandstanding about how no one would believe what had happened here, we both know that’s bullshit. Sam is going to expose you to the whole world, like he almost did before. You _lost,_ Dick. Nothing’s going to stop Sammy this time; not even you.”

Dick’s smile hadn’t faded any, but Dean wasn’t done. He found himself laughing a little then, even managing a smirk. “You know, I wasn’t sad that I was going to die before right this moment, but now I am,” he joked, and his smirk turned into a dark grin. “I’m gonna’ miss what they’re going to do to you. So many people are going to want your head on a pike. America alone; _Jannah_ — I wonder what the angels will do to their only living predator? Or maybe everyone will go for the poetic: Heard you’re an endangered species, Dick. I bet they’ll put you in a zoo, like a _real_ animal.”

The monster chuckled at that, before he was licking at his lips and looking Dean slowly up and down like he was a piece of meat. And since Dean was going to be, he tensed a little when Dick nodded and said, “We’ll see how that works out, Dean. In the meantime, you’ve brought up an important point: We are on a tight schedule, and I think our business here is concluded, don’t you?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, as Dick licked his lips again. “What do you say, Dean?” he purred, his pupils slitting more, Dean seeing a hint of the sharp teeth he somehow kept hidden. “How about one last little hunt, just between the two of us?”

Dean almost laughed. He was fucking _kidding,_ right? He could barely _move_ , and Dick wanted to _hunt him_? But in that disbelief, he also felt something else that made his heart start pounding and his anger grow. All of emotions came together then — his anger and hurt and confusion and doubts — into something he couldn’t describe, moving through him and making him feel powerful. It made him forget too — his fears, self-doubts and insecurities — all lost in that feeling.

The monster had destroyed people and families for what he wanted; had made people believe they were _nothing_ , just _animals_ , all so he could hunt them. But they _weren’t_ , Dean knew that — look at what Sam and Cas and the vampires had accomplished when they stopped believing that! But for all of those who had no choice, who had never had a chance to believe they were anything else… For all those who had lost someone to monster’s hunger — Dean wasn’t going to give Dick what he wanted. He _refused_.

And that had him leaning forward, baring his teeth at the monster as he hissed, “ _No_.”

The monster’s smile faded slightly. “No?” he repeated.

Dean started shaking again, mostly from fury. “ _No._ You either kill and eat me now, or leave me to die from my injuries. But I _refuse_ to play along with your sick game.”

Dick’s brow creased, but Dean wasn’t done. That, that was good, but there was more he wanted to say, more he _had_ to say. All those who had died, he could feel them; all those who had suffered, he had to give back to them. “We are _not_ animals,” he snarled at the monster. “We are not _nothing_. We are _not_ just _meat._ ”

It felt so good to say and mean, and it took everything out of Dean. He fell back against the tree, breathing heavily, ebbs of pain rolling up from his leg and making him shiver again. And for a moment it was only him trying to catch his breath, though he did notice the demons looking over at him in surprise. They were very, _very_ tense, their black eyes flicking from him over to Dick, and they looked like they were ready to get the hell out of Dodge at a moment’s notice.

Maybe it was because of Dick’s expression, Dean thought as he looked back at him. The monster looked... _annoyed_ , his smile gone completely. All traces of amusement in his eyes had disappeared, dark eyes narrowed at Dean like he was an insect that had annoyed him. And when he sighed suddenly, it had Dean frowning, wondering what was going on. It wasn’t like he was afraid — not when he was going to die anyway — but there was definitely something disconcerting about it all.

“You disappoint me, Dean,” he muttered then, and at any other time, Dean might have just said _good_. But he didn’t, watching as Dick lifted his lip in disgust. “You are _it_ — you _are_ the _spark_ — and yet you still refuse to use it. Do you _all_ need an external motivator to become what I want? Are you only capable of doing what you do because of _love_?”

Dean frowned slowly. Not because that was a weird thing to say — true as it was — but because Dick honestly looked like he didn’t understand _why_ that had to be a factor. Did the monster not understand _love?_ he wondered. Either way, it seemed to be the cause of the Dick’s annoyance, as he sighed again and shook his head. From behind him, the demons exchanged worried glances, while Dean frowned further, wondering again what the hell was going on. That feeling was forgotten when when Dick looked back at him, Dean tensing at the new look on his face.

He looked _pissed_.

“Let’s do it your way, Dean,” he murmured softly, voice not giving any emotions away as he narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward a little, so his eyes bored into Dean’s again. “Do you really think you, or your brother or any other member of your little rat pack, has actually _won_?”

Dean frowned again, confused, and Dick’s lips slid into a cool, dark smirk. It wasn’t like any of his others — this one was too smooth, like ice, and it was _not_ amused. “Do you really think your brother is the first person to find out about my little operation here?” he asked, and Dean looked back up at him. “Do you really think this is the first time I’ve had my operation come this close to being exposed? Do you think this is my _only_ island? Do you really think Dick Roman is my real name, and that I haven’t been doing this for years upon years upon _years_?”

That was a lot to take in at once, and all a little disturbing. Dean watched as Dick cocked his head at him, looking him up and down once again. “More importantly, do you think your family is safe now, Dean? Truly out of my reach? That I still can’t _hurt_ them?”

Dean’s heart had stopped halfway through all that, his stomach slowly sinking the longer he went. Dick smiled again, probably noticing he was having an effect. “You think your brother and the authorities will stop me, but they won’t, Dean. Even if I do let them find out what happened here, your family and friends will _never_ be safe from me. I can get to them any time I feel like it. Maybe it’ll be as soon as tomorrow, when I order my people to find wherever your brother landed and pay him a visit. Or perhaps it’ll be years and years from now, when I get settled under a new name on one of my other islands, and I decide to bring your brother, your angel and everyone else over for a _little_ visit.”

Dean managed to swallow around the lump in his throat, wanting to deny it, wanting to call him out on his bullshit. But the look on the monster’s face said that he was deadly serious, and Dean felt a slow chill go down his spine.

After everything they had gone through, were Sam and Cas and the others _still_ in danger? After fighting so hard, after _escaping_ the island _,_ would the monster just have them killed anyway?

Everything they fought for, worked toward... Had anything they done  _mattered_?

Were they nothing? Were they really _just_ meat?

Dean felt himself starting to shake again, tears pricking his eyes once more. _No,_ he couldn’t help but think. _No—_

“Of course, there is a way to stop me and save your family and lover, Dean,” Dick murmured then, and Dean looked up back up at him. The monster’s smile grew, his eyes narrowing again. “Right here and now.”

Dean’s heart thudded hard in his chest.

He had to kill Dick, he realized.

Without thinking, his eyes slid over to where a rifle lay, one of the ones the demons hadn’t picked up yet. It was too far away to make a lunge for it (not that he even had the ability to lunge), and he wasn’t even sure what it could actually _do_ against the monster. But it was there. So close. 

“Hmmm,” Dick said, Dean glancing at him and seeing he was eying the gun too. His eyes flicked to Dean’s, and then his amused grin was back, this time full of sharp, white teeth. “That’s better, Dean. You know what you have to do, don’t you? Start crawling.”

Dean felt paralyzed, rooted to the ground. Crawling was all he could do, with his leg. But was that even going to be enough? How the hell was he supposed to kill the monster when he could barely move and even the most powerful of bullets hadn’t stopped him? What would a rifle do to him? What could he even do to the monster, crippled as he was?

What choice did he have though?

Dick lifted up then, stepping back as his hands slipped into his pockets. His eyes never left Dean as he pushed off the tree and flopped to the ground, a wave of pain slamming into him. His stomach lurched, and he had to fight off the wave of nausea, forehead breaking out into a sweat. But with each breath he took, adrenaline was coming to him; it was enough that he could push up on his elbows and slowly begin to crawl. Dick huffed in amusement and followed along as he headed for the gun, speaking the entire time.

“Oh Dean, you’re a thing of beauty right, do you even realize that?” he said while Dean pulled himself forward. The rocks dug into his chest, ribs throbbing, but he gritted his teeth and pushed his body along, using his good leg to help him. “You don’t, do you? But look at you go anyway. Dean, I have to be honest. You’re kind of completing me right now.”

It hurt so much to move, Dean feeling tears slide down his face. He had to kill Dick, he had to save Sammy and Cas and _everyone_ … Even though he wasn’t sure _how._ So he kept moving, his heart pounding away, trying to ignore the feel the rocks cutting into his stomach—

“If only I could bottle up what you have, Dean,” Dick said, walking alongside him as he moved. “I’ll figure it out, of course, but think if I didn’t have to spend so long preparing my animals. I could get to my favorite part _so_ much faster. ”

Dean was close, so goddamn close to the gun. Only a few more inches and then—

His fingers just brushed the metal of the rifle when Dick put his foot on his back and pressed down _hard._ Dean had to fight down the wave of pain that came from his ribs, looking up at Dick through tears in his eyes.

“But I suppose I’ll just have to live with you until then,” he murmured as he grinned, jaw shifting and revealing rows upon rows of _teeth_. “So what do you say, Dean? One last hunt, just between the two of us. Show me _everything_ you’re capable of.”

All Dean could do was stare as the monster launched toward him, teeth-first.


	38. Chapter 38

When he and Sam were little, they had somehow ended up watching a werewolf mom teaching her pup how to hunt. An unlucky bunny rabbit had been the guinea pig for the lesson, injured just enough so it couldn’t escape easily from the clumsy, uncoordinated pup. What had always stuck in Dean's mind was how _terrified_ the poor animal had been: No matter how much it ran, hopped, tried to bite and fight back, the pup never let it get far, pouncing and snatching it up in his jaws or tossing it around. In the end, the rabbit had collapsed from sheer exhaustion, and there was no fight left in it when teeth finally came and gave it the only escape it had: Death.

Facing off against the monster, Dean had never related to that rabbit more.

How he had managed to dodge Dick’s first attack, Dean would never really know. Instinct had kicked in last second, and he’d thrown himself into a roll just as sharp teeth snapped right where he had been. There was no time for stopping or looking back: He had had to ignore his knee sending white-hot streaks up his body, going into a full-on army crawl mode over for to the next rifle he could see. From behind him, the monster had chuckled and followed after him, leisurely strolling along like it had all been some sort of game.

"Good, Dean," he had crooned, pleased. "Look at you go."

But it was a game for him, wasn't it? Dean was the rabbit — defenseless, injured, unable to truly fight back, his only escape his death but he _could not die, he had to kill the monster_ — and Dick was toying with him. He let Dean get to the next rifle before he was on him again, swinging now razor-sharp nails down toward his back. Dean had managed to roll out of the way again, but the nails caught his shoulder, tearing right into his jacket and grazing his skin. Blood had started welling up as he scrambled to grab the rifle… Only for Dick to then pick him up and  _throw_ him.

Dean had hit a tree and slid to the ground, the movement jostling his injured knee and making have to choke down a cry of pain. The pain was blinding, going through him in vicious waves and it had taken every ounce Dean had to push past it. When he did, he had had to remember how to breathe, heart pounding so hard he felt like it’d burst from his chest. He could hear the monster laughing in the distance, and it had sent chills down his spine.

“Having fun yet, Dean?” Dick had called. “We’re only just getting started!”

Tears had slipped down Dean’s cheeks again at that. Still, he made himself move, and shook violently the entire way. _I have to kill the monster,_ was his mantra as he had struggled to roll onto his stomach and push himself up on his elbows, _I have to kill the monster, I_ have _to kill the monster—_

Except he had had no idea how to do that. How did you even kill something that was faster and stronger than an angel, and already had shrugged off a bullet? Dean had no weapons on him — for all the good they’d even do him; not to mention, Dick had thrown him _away_ from the rifles — and he was on his own, too. Sammy wasn’t there to come up some brilliant plan that could kill Dick, like Dean knew he would do in this situation. Cas wasn’t there to protect him until Dean could find a rifle and get another shot off; Andrea, Benny and Sophia weren’t there with their venom or numbers.

He was all _alone,_  with no clue what to do. But he had to do something though, he had thought. His family and friends were still in danger, and he had to _save them_ —

 _You can’t save anyone, Dean_.

The thought had almost paralyzed him, more tears pricking his eyes, leaving him shaking for entirely different reasons. But no, he had to kill the monster, he _had_ to—

But what if he couldn’t?

That was nearly as paralyzing a thought as the first one had been. _No_ , he had thought again. He couldn’t start thinking that. There had to be a way, there _had_ to be…

But whatever it was, he hadn’t been able to figure it out. The monster had started coming in after him, Dean seeing him as he meandered through the trees, moonlight catching his smile of sharp teeth. Not knowing what else to do, Dean had started crawling again, moving to go deeper into the forest. He had hoped the trees would provide him some cover until an idea came to him, or he found something that could possibly kill Dick.

And even though he had managed to get to his feet and moved a little faster (as fast as he could hopping on one leg), putting some more distance between him and the monster, no idea ever came to him. Nothing ever presented itself, and he started to wonder if anything would. And with that thought came another, one just as horrifying as all the others.

_He was going to die._

And as much as he didn't want that either, the monster did catch up to him. That was how Dean found himself shoved up against a tree, with Dick choking the life out of him. But as everything started to go black, his windpipe slowly crushed, he thought he could hear a voice call out to him.

_Dean!_

Dean snapped open his eyes at that voice. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t hear, only see Dick with a grin of sharp teeth. The voice yelled at him again, frantic, desperate… And it sounded just like Cas?

_Dean!_

Somehow, it gave him a surge of adrenaline, his body moving without him really thinking. He struck back any way he could, beating on Dick’s face, chest and arms; he kicked too, with his good leg, hitting the monster’s legs and stomach. Dick took it all without a flinch until Dean hit the shoulder he had shot, and with a sudden, pained snarl, the monster dropped him.

Dean hit the ground, all air shoved out of him as a violent stab of pain went up from his knee, making his vision go in and out. Somehow, his body moved again, heart pounding away as he dragged his bad leg with him and scooted backwards. His vision came back just in time to see Dick swaying on his feet, clutching at his injured shoulder, where black blood was blossoming up from under his shirt. Dean didn’t get a chance to look at it long, Dick’s pupils slitted when they turned back to him, a rattling hiss leaving his mouth. Gasping, Dean tried to scramble away, nothing more than his pounding heart and adrenaline as he threw himself into another crawl.

Dick was on him in seconds, twisting him onto his back; his jaws fell open and revealed rows of sharp teeth once more. Dean struck back again, kicking with his good leg, hitting Dick’s stomach and chest again to no avail. The shoulder was the weak spot again however, Dean nailing it with a solid kick that made the monster recoil with another violent hiss. But for all it hurt him, it seemed to only excite him in the end, Dean faltering when the monster’s entire lower face split into a grin that literally reached ear to ear.

This time, Dean couldn’t get away fast enough, the monster’s blow catching him right across the face. Blood spurted from his nose and cheek as he rolled into another tree, the hit leaving him woozy and barely able to move as Dick strode up to him. He managed to lift up an arm in a futile attempt to defend himself, only for the monster to slash at it, Dean crying out. He was cut off mid-cry when the claws hit his side, his ribs bursting with pain, the smell of blood filling the air again. But that was only the beginning of the onslaught, and all Dean could do was try to deflect what he could... for all the good it did to him.

He didn’t really remember all that happened, the monster tossing him around a few times while he was at it. His clothes protected him somewhat, but just barely, each swipe of claws tearing at them and getting skin. And there was pain, so much _pain_ , combining with his knee, until it seemed endless. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t flee, couldn’t feel anything but _agony;_ through it all the monster laughed, and laughed. All thoughts of killing monsters and trying to save his family and friends were gone — Dean only had one thought during it all.

 _God, somebody help me_.

But he was alone.

( _There was only one thing worse than hunger on this island, the vampires had told him once. And that was being alone._ )

God, he was _all alone_.

Dean remembered screaming.

The monster ended up throwing him again, and when Dean landed, he found himself tumbling down a hill. Halfway down, his head smacked against _something,_  stars exploding in his eyes. He didn’t actually recall landing or coming to a stop, and he didn’t notice he was lying on the ground until he realized the cold underneath him was dirt. His fingers slowly curled into it, anchoring him as the world spun, trees and ferns growing bigger and smaller in his blurry vision.

As he lay there, he thought he heard voices again, familiar and yet so far away.

_Promise me, Dean._

_Take care of yourself, Dean._

_Don’t be afraid._

_I want to live for you._

The last voice made him stir, managing to lift his heavy head up from the ground, coughing out dirt and blood. The movement made him dizzy and his head ache, which only joined in with the pain the rest of his body was in. All of his wounds were raw and burned like fire, his injured knee the worst of it all, sending bone-chilling shivers up his leg. He could feel blood everywhere — dripping from his gashes, cuts, and other lacerations — and his latest wound was oozing blood down the side of his head, mixing with sweat and tears. He found he couldn’t breathe through his nose, one of his eyes swelling closed even as he lay there.

But despite the pain, despite the dizziness, he dragged his arms over and braced his hands on the ground. His body shook violently as he pushed himself up on his arms, vision blurring in and out again, thoughts feverish.

_I have to kill... I have to kill…_

His body gave out on him halfway up, and he collapsed back to the dirt.

Darkness crept into his vision then, his eyelids growing heavy. He tried to fight it, but it was _so hard_ — his body hurt _so much,_ and it didn’t want to move anymore. Except he had to move, he _had_ to: He had to kill the monster or he would kill them all; he had to _save_ his family and friends—

 _You can’t save anyone, Dean_.

He went still at that thought, forgetting how to breathe.

He had used to believe that... Accepted it, even. Then the boat had come, and made him  _believe_ that he could...

But maybe he shouldn't have believed that. He hadn't actually saved anyone; they were all still in danger. And he had no idea how to save them now, because he had no idea how to to kill Dick. And maybe he was kidding himself thinking he even could. The most he had done was kick Dick in the shoulder a couple times, and he’d be lucky if he could do that again. He could barely _move_ now, and it wouldn’t be long until the monster found him and started round two of the onslaught. Dean wasn’t sure if he’d survive another one of those, and the mere thought of it had him wishing he _wouldn’t_.

But, no _, no_. After everything Sam and Cas and the vampires had been through, when they had fought _so hard_ , he couldn’t let them down _now_. He could do anything for his family, couldn’t he? That was who he was; he _could_ save them—

“Oh, human,” a familiar voice murmured then, and Dean looked up in surprise. He saw Andrea standing in front of him, shaking her head like she pitied him. But there was nothing in her one eye, just an emptiness that seemed to stretch for ages. “We’re _animals_. We can’t be saved.”

And then Sam was there, sitting amongst a pile of bones. His cheeks were sunken in, dark circles under his eyes making his face look like a skull. “Is this all we are, Dean?” he whispered, gesturing around, and Dean swallowed. “Everything we work for, everything we fight for… Is this all we are in the end?”

Dean felt tears prick his eyes, his eye moving over when he heard someone whimpering. It turned out to be the werewolf, nameless, dying, paw clutching at the hole in her heart. But the part of her that was human shining through her eyes… until it slowly faded away, her animal side emerging again. She snarled, her teeth baring as her pupils slitted; in her eyes, Dean saw something he was so familiar with, words that still scared him. _We’re all just meat._

And then they were gone, but their words echoed in the air long after. Dean was left shaking, tears winding their way down his cheeks as darkness crept back into his vision. He could only lay there, and let their words wash over him, settle under his skin. They sank right into his bones, slipped into his veins, poisoned his blood. He could feel them in every throb of pain, in the slow beat of his heart, in every breath he took.

_He could not save anyone._

He could not do anything. He could not be who he needed to be... If that person ever existed. He had fought so hard against what this island and the monster wanted him to _see,_ to _understand,_  but he couldn't anymore. It had been there from the beginning, the second he had stepped onto the island and was confronted with the evidence of what the monster was doing. (Dick’s trophy collection — all those _people_.) When he faced off against the werewolf, the vampires, the hellhounds — it had been there too. When he had found Sam in a cavern full of dead, he should have understood it then. It had always been there, and Dean _had_ to face it.

There was no accepting it temporarily either, because the promise he wouldn’t _always_ be _it_ wasn't true. He should have never once believed he was anything but _it_ — and should have never made anyone else believe it either. He had to accept the truth of who and what he was.

And it was there, all alone in the dark, he _finally_ admitted it to himself.

Everything he had done, everything he fought for, hadn’t mattered.

He was nothing — he was just _meat —_ and he could _not_ save _anyone_.

He felt the shift in his body and mind as that went through him. It was like someone had taken the weight off his chest, and he found he could breathe again. His body stopped shaking too, and the pain faded away, his head growing so, so heavy. Tension drained from his muscles, and he felt his heartbeat slow, his breathing evening out. Tears slid down his cheeks one last time, before he felt his eyelids started to close, exhaustion overwhelming him. He was so, so tired, and he didn't want to fight anymore.

But before he slipped into darkness, he thought he heard another voice, whispering to him faintly.

 _Don’t forget, Dean_.

* * *

_He’s lying in a forest full of corpses and bones, a monster lurking somewhere in the trees. He doesn't care though, too tired and cold to do anything but just look up at the moon. It's so far above him, barely a dot amongst tree tops that look like sharp teeth._

_The monster drifts closer, smearing bones black, its hiss growing louder, eager. But something's happening: The_ _moon light starting to grow brighter and brighter. It lights up the entire forest, chasing away shadows, making the monster recoil and retreat. It becomes too bright to look at it, but from it comes a voice, one he knows so well..._

“Dean.”

His head was so heavy but Dean managed to crack open his eyes at that voice. He looked up, and then his eyes flew open as he looked at Castiel.

He had never seen a more beautiful sight: Cas’s tousled hair and his bright blue eyes; the spread of his great black wings, no tattered or missing feathers in sight. The moon haloed his head, and gleamed off his silver-and-blue armor, his entire being seeming to glow. He seemed to radiate warmth and light, and it slowly heated up Dean’s cold, cold body, making his fingers twitch against the dirt. He didn’t know why he was there though, or if he was even really _there_ — if he was dreaming about the angel, or he had died and this was the afterlife.

“Cas?” he whispered, confused, and the angel slowly smiled.

“It’s okay,” Cas murmured, and those words made Dean’s heart lift a little. (Those words... He had once would have given _anything_ to hear those words again.) But then Cas reached over to cup his cheek, and Dean forgot everything, a strangled whimper leaving his throat. "It's okay," Cas whispered again.

Nothing else had ever felt as good as that touch, and Dean sank into it, tears blurring his vision. God, he had never _needed_ something _so much,_  and he immediately craved more, but his hand wouldn’t move when he tried. Cas seemed to sense what he wanted though, one wing spreading around him, his other hand curling around Dean’s. It made Dean choke on a sob, Cas’s smile growing as he whispered once more, “It’s okay. You have me.”

Those words made Dean's breath hitch as he _remembered_. He did have Cas, he always had, in one way or another, in his memories, in his dreams, even _here_. He shouldn't have forgotten that, but everything was okay now, because Cas was _here._  He was here _,_  and Dean wasn't alone anymore, God, he had been so _alone_...

But there was a problem with that. Cas _wasn’t_ supposed to be here, was he? No, he was off the island, Dean had watched him leave, hadn't he? But he _was_ here, and that made Dean's stomach drop, a stab of panic going through him. The monster was close by, and he would _kill_ him, he would kill them _all_. And Dean didn’t know how to stop him, didn’t know how to save them. No, he _couldn’t_ stop him and he _couldn’t_ save them, he had realized that. And that made Dean tear up again, suddenly wanting the angel as far away from him as he could get, to run and not look back. The monster couldn’t kill him too, the monster _couldn’t_ —

“Cas, _Cas_ ,” he warned, but the angel shushed him, pressing a finger to his lips. Dean blinked past the tears in his eyes, watching as Cas shook his head, and seemed to glow brighter. His smile grew too, comforting and warm, bright blue eyes containing no fear.

“It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmured, and then drew his finger away. He lifted it up, pointing toward the trees, and murmured, “ _Look_.”

Dean followed his gaze, up along the trunk of a tree, past moss and fungi and bough weighed heavy with snow. About halfway up the trunk, he noticed two deep grooves carved into the wood in the shape of a cross, marks white in the moonlight. And it wasn’t the only one: Dean’s eyes drifted from from one tree to another, each one marked with the same grooves.

 _“Always mark your traps in a way that you or someone else can see them,”_ an eight-year-old Sam whispered across time and memory as Dean’s mouth slowly fell open.

“Sam’s traps,” he whispered as tears slid down his cheeks again.

He jerked his eyes back to Cas, who met his gaze. Dean didn't even have to ask the question, Cas nodding once. 

“You have to _move_ , Dean,” he said then, and Dean nodded once, twice, his heart starting to pound. He could feel a strength beginning to course through him, making his entire body shake again as he slowly dragged his hands over. He braced them against the dirt and _pushed_ , fighting against his weak muscles, against the pain that was starting to return in leaps and bounds. Cas whispered words of encouragement as he did, Dean squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth before slowly _, slowly,_ he lifted up.

Such a simple move, but it nearly took everything out of him. Cas continued to whisper words of support though, as Dean fought dizziness and exhaustion and slowly looked around. Sam had had a pattern to his traps, and Dean struggled to remember it, blinking sweat and tears out of his eyes. If they were like the others he had seen before, the first one would be a pig spear trap or a knife attached to a sapling, or _both_...

And he was right: He had already triggered one trap without realizing it. It was a pig spear trap, but since it was meant to catch a standing human, it had missed him entirely since he was on the ground. The wooden spike was dangling just above his head, attached to a willowy branch just like he had taught Sam all those years ago. He braced himself on one elbow to reach up and grab it, bending the branch until it snapped. The rest of the branch fell out of view, the remainder of the trap in his hand, including the wooden stake.

He didn’t have time to hide that part though. “Hurry, Dean,” Cas was prompting him, before he looked behind him. When Dean glanced over, his heartbeat spiked when he saw the monster was _right there,_ stepping out from the trees and looking down at him on the ground.

“There you are,” he crooned, a now forked tongue running along his lips. Dean could see his nostrils flaring, probably spelling all his blood; dark eyes zeroed on him, the hunger heavy in the monster's gaze. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Dean. Ready to continue our meeting?”

Dean felt a stab of panic, and it almost paralyzed him then and there. ( _The monster was going to kill him, the monster was going to kill him._ ) But another voice came to him — whispering _don’t be afraid_ — and it was enough to keep him focused. He scrambled forward as quickly as he could move, the muscles in his arm straining to pull him along, dragging both his bad knee and the spike of the pig spear trap with him. He heard a hiss, and one glance up showed Dick’s jaw gaping to bring forward his sharp teeth again; Dean let out a desperate sound and dragged himself further up the path. Cas coaxed him along the way, further ahead of him every time Dean blinked. “Keep moving, Dean," he told him, "Keep _moving_.”

And Dean did until he saw the first trip wire, positioned just high enough that he could slip under it. Once he was past it, he paused and looked behind him again, seeing the monster striding toward him. He never seemed to notice the wire, and Dean braced himself when the monster hit it and it snapped free—

There was a flash of movement — too fast for Dean’s eyes to track — and a swoosh of air that rattled the ferns. The sound of something hitting flesh made Dick’s rattling, hungry hiss stop with the loudest gurgle. Dean gaped when he noticed the spear now buried in Dick’s side, black blood slowly staining his shirt.

Dick’s mouth had dropped, stretched out jaws swinging loose as he looked down at the spear. In the moonlight, Dean could see the monster’s surprise and confusion, his hand reaching over to grasp the wood. More blood dripped free as he swayed on his feet a little; Dean realized he himself wasn’t breathing, thoughts feverish again. Had it worked?

The trap would have immobilized anyone else, if not killed them outright, after all. But as Dean watched in growing horror, the monster gripped the spear tight and then slowly pulled it out of his side. Once it was free, he snapped it in half, and tossed the pieces away.

He looked back at Dean then, his grin splitting his face in two again. “Your brother’s work, I take it?” he said, sounding cheery despite the bleeding wound at his side. His eyes narrowed in glee, and Dean cringed, bracing himself. “I heard he’d built traps. Good on you, Dean, for trying to make use of it… But you'll let me return the favor, won't you?”

 _Son of a bitch,_ was Dean’s only thought. He tried to get away, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid Dick’s sharp nails whipping down.

Clothes didn’t really stop those claws, and they ripped right into the flesh of his back. Dean barely managed to contain his scream, the searing, blistering _sting_ making stars explode in his eyes again. He could smell blood, and it only added to the pain he was already in, making him crumple up against the dirt. He let out a shuddering sob as the pain overwhelmed him, Dick’s laughter in his ears. God, oh god, Dean thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Fuck, it hurt _so much_.

“Dean!” Cas called again, and _somehow,_ Dean managed to crack open his eyes. The angel was crouched by the next trip wire, gesturing him over frantically. The wire was _close_ too _,_ and though Dean was shaking, feeling like he was burning alive from pain, he sucked in several deep breaths, and forced himself up again. He had dropped the stake from the first trap, and he grasped that with his hand before he started to push himself forward again.

Dick’s laughter died, but Dean could feel those hungry eyes on him, hear the utter delight in his voice. “Oh, Dean, look at you. Still moving, still fighting, aren’t you? What does it take to _break_ you?” he purred, and then his voice grew almost _lustful_. “I’m going to have to break every last bone in your body, aren’t I? You’re going to watch me eat you alive, aren’t you?”

He started then and there, Dean glancing over and seeing Dick slurping up strips of chunky flesh off his fingers. Flesh that had just been on his back, and _fuck_ , Dean almost lost it at that. (He was literally eating him _alive._ ) He had to keep himself going with thoughts of _don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid_ , and pushed himself closer and closer to the trip wire. When he was close enough to it, his blood-soaked trembling fingers reached for it. His mind raced as they did, trying to remember the order of Sam’s traps again. _Pig spear trap, bow trap, deadfall trap..._

His fingers hesitated as he realized what was coming next, and he glanced back at the monster. Dick was coming for him again, jaws opening wide; Dean tensed, realizing what he had to do, and he flattened his hand against the ground. As Dick’s claws arched down, ready to slice at him again, Dean shoved himself into a roll and out of the way. The monster stumbled forward, his eyes swinging to where he had gone; Dean, with a desperate sound, shot his hand out and uprooted the spike the trip wire was tied to.

As it whipped free, a loud groaning sound came from the trees. The monster turned his head up, just as a large dead tree fell from the trees, and crashed right into him. Dean covered his head just in case, hearing the log splintering and cracking when it hit the ground with a _thump_.

Silence followed after the last few cracks, and Dean lifted up his head slowly, wheezing through his lips. It took several tries before he had enough strength to lift himself up and survey the wreckage. Dick was nowhere in sight under the dead tree, and Dean swallowed painfully.

Was he dead? he wondered, chills raking down his body. Was it over?

There was another large crack and, to Dean’s horror, he watched as the log began to lift, splintering down the middle as Dick’s laughter rang out from under it. Dean’s heart leaped in panic again. Fucking hell, could nothing kill him?!

“Dean!” Cas cried, Dean’s eyes jerking toward him. He saw the angel bending down near a large tree, gesturing him over again. On the trunk of the tree was Sam’s final marker, and Dean looked at it, thoughts racing again. _Bow trap, deadfall trap, pit trap..._

_The pit trap._

His breath stuttered, and he glanced back at Castiel, who nodded once. “ _Move_ , Dean,” he ordered, Dean scrambling forward, crawling around where he knew the trap was. He looked back when he heard another sharp crack: One glance at the log revealed that it was still splintering apart, lifting off the ground like it was breathing.

With one final crack, Dick burst from under it, chunks of wood falling off him as he rose to his feet. In the moonlight, Dean saw half of his face coated in black blood, but there was a slump in his injured shoulder, indicating it was dislocated. But his eyes were the most terrifying part: They zeroed in on Dean, dark and _pissed,_ his sneer filled with rows and rows of teeth.

“ _Dean,_ ” he hissed, tongue flickering out to catch the blood sliding into his mouth. “Did you really think you could trump _me_?”

Dean had no real answer, pushing himself up against the tree, fingers clutching the wood. Dick swayed on his feet, clutching at his injured shoulder and licking at his blood again. But his eyes were searching the trees and then the ground, obviously looking for more tripwires. When he saw none, his eyes flicked back to Dean’s, and that was where Dean _saw_ it.

There was just a flicker of hesitancy on the monster’s part, and when Dick noticed that that he seen it, the snarl that left his throat was bone-chilling.

“You can’t kill _me_ ,” he hissed before he staggering forward, Dean tensing and pressing harder against the tree trunk. The monster took another step toward him, when there was a large crack; it was the only sound before the ground suddenly gave way beneath him. Dick fell through leaves and dirt to the pit below, and the squelch of flesh hitting the stakes at the bottom was the most disgusting sound. 

Silence returned, Dean staring at the hole in the ground as he tried to remember how to breathe. Had that killed him? he wondered. Was it over now?

He spoke too soon: From the depths of the pit, the monster rose up. He drenched in black blood, oozing from every one of his wounds. His eyes were lost in that blackness, and then disappeared altogether as his swinging jaw split wide with a roar. His entire face spread open to become one gigantic black pit lined with teeth, and it took over Dean’s entire vision, his entire _world_.

 _You’re nothing. You’re just meat_ , whispered the pit and Dean couldn’t look away, caught up in its thrall. He could see nothing inside that bottomless pit except the teeth, and he knew it was going to swallow him whole. He would disappear forever inside that blackness, just like the one that was inside him, and he would never _escape—_

_“Dean!”_

Castiel’s voice made him look over, seeing the angel beside him again. In his hands was the spike of the pig spear trap — or was it his _own_ hand? Dean wondered. But he knew what to do with it, and he gripped it tight, looking back at the monster. The pit of teeth was starting to descend straight toward him, and Dean, with the words _don't be afraid_ in his ears, whipped the stake up to meet it.

It hit the monster right in the neck, going completely through to the other side.

The pit of teeth jerked to a halt, before all of it flopped down, dangling from Dick’s face as he choked. Dean watched with a mix of horror and awe as the monster tensed up and gurgled, blood beginning to drip from his mouth. His eyes met Dean’s, and there was a look of utter shock on his face, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Dean wrenched the stake free then, and the monster gurgled again, swaying violently. Blood, so much black blood, began to flow out of the wounds, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head. And then, with Dean watching in amazement, he collapsed, landing heavily on the ground. Blood from all his wounds — on his neck, side, and the holes littering his chest — soaked the ground, as his chest lifted once and didn’t lift again.

Then, on an island where so many had lived and died, Dean watched the monster die too.

And it was all over.


	39. Chapter 39

The monster was dead.

 _It’s over_ , Dean thought with the weakest of laughs. Then, like he was a puppet and someone snapped his strings, his body gave out completely. He dropped the blood-coated pig spear, and slumped back against the tree he had been against, a wave of dizziness making everything spin. Adrenaline fading, the pain returned full force, and he could feel blood oozing from his many wounds. There was nothing he could do though: He was too exhausted to do anything but lay there and shiver violently against the pain and cold.

But that was okay — his family and friends were free of the monster and the island. They were going _home_ , and that was all Dean had ever wanted. He had done it, he had _saved_ them... And like he had told Sam, he could die now, knowing they were safe.

It came to him quicker than he thought, wrapping around him like a cocoon. A pleasant feeling spread through him like he was dipped in a warm bath, and it no longer hurt to breathe. The chill in his bones went next, and then the pain disappeared. His body started to relax and unwind, stretching out and feeling like he was floating away. His eyelids grew heavy too, until he could barely keep them open and he started to nod off.

Cas remained at his side through it all, holding his hand, his warm smile never leaving his face. But before Dean closed his eyes, Cas cupped his cheeks, drawing his gaze up to the angel’s. It was then he noticed the sadness in Cas’s blue, blue eyes, an ache in them that Dean couldn’t name. He couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to figure it out though; they were already closing and his mind was starting to drift.

“Don’t forget, Dean,” Cas whispered as Dean slipped into darkness. “Don’t forget.”

* * *

He and the twins were having a rock concert in the back of the Impala, all of Dean’s favorite hits blasting away. _Stairway to Heaven, Kashmir_ and, of course, Dean’s favorite _Ramble On_ , which he drummed along with on the steering wheel like he was born to do it. Joan and Mary, wearing feather boas and their parents’ sunglasses, danced away in the backseat; Joan even air guitared during one of the solos, just like Dean had shown her.

Outside the car, Sam and Jess were watching them. The look on Sam’s face was great, a mix of faint horror and amusement, the _you’re corrupting my children_ clear in his eyes. Jess was much more into it, clapping and singing too, before she giggled into her hand and called to the girls. “Let’s leave Uncle Dean to his music,” she said, and there was a flurry of blond hair and brightly colored boas scrambling off black leather seats and out the doors. The twins threw themselves into their parent’s arms, Sam laughing as he swung Joan up in the air, and Jess hugging Mary tightly.

Dean watched them as they went back into the house, grinning. That was his brother’s family, he thought, absolutely perfect in every way. He was so grateful to be able to be part of it too... Though sometimes, watching them, he felt a pang of desire for _more_. It was such a dumb thought, but seeing Sam so happy made Dean wonder what it would be like to have his _own_ partner, his _own_ family...

_“About what I said, you know, e-earlier. If you wanna’ get a hamburger, catch up on some movies, I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted.”_

_“I do want that, Dean.”_

That made Dean stiffen, tears pricking his eyes as they drifted to the empty seat beside him. That was right, he almost had that once, but...

The Impala was gone then, and he found himself in a forest, slumped against a tree. Confused, he almost called out for his brother... before he remembered that Sam wasn’t there. Bobby’s boat had carried his brother away, back to Jess and the girls, and Dean had stayed behind on the island. Sam, Cas, the vampires, they were going home, and that was all Dean ever wanted...

Right?

Zeppelin was still playing though, the guitar riffs slow now, Plant mournful as he crooned, _“I said baby, you know I'm gonna leave you._ ” Dean didn’t know where the sound was coming from; all he could see was forest, flicks of movement coming from the sky. _Rain_ , he realized after a moment, though he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything, now that he thought about it...

“I learned to the love the rain.”

Dean frowned at that familiar voice, and then looked over. Sitting cross-legged beside him was an angel, one he would know anywhere. Dean frowned, confused.

“Cas?” he whispered. What was he doing here?

It wasn’t the Cas who had been with him before — it was the Cas he knew here, on the island. He was looking out at the forest, what light there was catching on the thick, white scars on his chest, his various bruises and cuts. His coat hung off his shoulders, torn and frayed, his ribs revealed with every breath he took. The wind batted at his messy hair, as well as his dark grey wings, broken and tattered and missing far too many feathers again. It hurt Dean to look at his body, though he knew all Cas's scars and bruises were only a hint to everything he  _actually_ suffered.

“The monster didn’t hunt us when it rained,” Cas continued, and Dean looked back at him. The angel's eyes were distant, lost in memory. “It was one of the things I always looked forward to: Finding enough food, avoiding my predators, _rain_. It was what I lived for.”

Cas’s brow furrowed then, his eyes slowly drifting away from the forest. Dean noticed then that his pupils were slitted, blue eyes empty as he whispered, “It was all I lived for.”

If Dean could feel anything, the look in Cas’s eyes would have chilled him to his bones. The last time he had seen Cas like this, the angel had been scared of giving in: To his hunger; to the part of him that was only an animal. It terrified Dean to see the utter emptiness on his face again, and he asked worriedly, “Cas?”

The angel either ignored him or didn’t seem to hear him, though he began to blink several times. To Dean’s relief, his pupils returned to normal, but then he looked _confused_ , shaking his head while he was at it. Dean grew worried again, a feeling that only grew when Cas gripped his hair as if it pained him. And maybe it did, Dean wanting to reach over to comfort him, to figure out what was wrong. But his body wouldn’t move, and he frowned, confused.

Why couldn’t he move?

“T-They said... They said I should speak to you. T-That it’ll help,” Cas said slowly, and Dean looked back at him — someone had told Cas to talk to him? Why? The angel’s brow furrowed then and he squeezed his eyes shut with another shake of his head. “I-It’s so difficult though, Dean. Words... They keep getting stuck in my throat, and I can’t get them out. I try, but it’s hard to _focus..._ ”

Dean, worried and confused — why was Cas having trouble speaking again? — then grew alarmed when tears suddenly filled the angel’s eyes. “They don’t like it when I can’t speak,” he choked out, and then his gaze shifted away, looking at something that Dean couldn’t see. His wings tightened against his body as he grew tense, eyes growing wide and scared. “T-They look at me as if I am wounded or ill and I can’t be, Dean, I _can’t_ be. I won’t be able to run from the dogs if I am, and then the monster will come for me, he'll _come for me_.”

His eyes darted around frantically, chest starting to heave up and down again and again. He was shaking, _panicking_ , and Dean grew scared. “It’s too quiet here. I do not like it,” Cas hissed, pupils slitting again before he looked back at Dean. “That means something wrong, doesn’t it? That the monster is close? It’s so _confusing_ here, Dean. I need the rain, I need your voice. I need _you_ , Dean. Why aren’t you here, why aren’t you _here_ —”

Castiel suddenly cut off. Then, to Dean’s confusion and horror, he watched as the angel’s pupils suddenly grew _huge_ , black nearly erasing the blue of his irises. _What the fuck?_ he thought as Cas swayed from side-to-side and had to press his hand against the ground to steady himself. A shudder went through him, before the tension melted out of his muscles and his head slumped forward. His wings fell loose too, flopping against the ground like overturned bedsheets.

“Cas?” Dean whispered in concern, not knowing what was going on. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas had just been drugged... but that didn’t make any sense. (How could he be drugged?) Dean frowned again — if Cas wasn’t drugged, then what was going on? — but that disappeared when the angel looked up, his lips sliding into a manic grin.

“Did you know that a cat's penis is sharply barbed along its shaft?” he muttered and then, in a way that sent alarm bells off in Dean, he giggled. “Were the females even consulted about that?”

 _What the actual fuck?_ Dean thought. Once he would have given anything to hear Cas laugh freely, but not like _this_. Something was terribly wrong, and Dean needed to make sure he was _okay._.. Except his body still wouldn’t move when he tried, and this time, that made a stab of panic go through him. _Why_ couldn’t he move? he wondered, and then looked down at himself.

To his surprise, he saw his blood-soaked clothes, and his knee, its bandages stained red. The monster was dead at his feet, glassy eyes staring into nothing, the rain Dean couldn’t feel falling forming puddles in the mud all around them.

It took staring at his body and the monster for a moment before he finally _remembered_ : He had been _dying,_ hadn’t he? Everything had hurt, and he had been so tired, so cold, and he _knew_ he wouldn’t last long. He had been okay with it though, because everyone was safe, just like he wanted...

But Cas was _here_ , when he wasn’t supposed to be on this island anymore. And Dean was... Lying here? Paralyzed? Unable to do anything but watch him?

Utterly confused, he looked back when Cas’s giggles grew louder, head falling forward again as his shoulders shook. If he wasn’t laughing, Dean would have thought he was crying, Cas sucking in a breath and then lifting his head once more. He was grinning again, eyes wild; Dean’s heart clenched as he leaned in, the angel’s pupils unable to focus even though he was mere inches away from his face.

“Do you hear that? Do you hear that, Dean?” he whispered as if telling Dean a secret. But there _was_ something: Dean could hear Zeppelin singing _Ramble On_ again in the distant. Cas’s grin grew wider. “I forgot what music was. Isn’t it _glorious_? Sam says this is your favorite song. I like it.”

Castiel then started to sing, voice in tune but sandpaper rough, like he hadn’t spoken in years again. “ _Darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair,”_ he crooned, feathers on his wings fluffing up as he did. _“But Gollum and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, ye-ah.”_

He giggled again, and his eyes, despite being bright with their wild gleam, grew affectionate. His wing lifted up and, though Dean couldn’t feel it, it brushed against his shoulder. There was a teasing lilt to Cas's voice he murmured, “You’re the one so fair, Dean. And the monster took you away, _ain’t nothin’ I can do, no._ ”

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean pleaded when the angel's eyes filled with tears again, and then he let out a pained sob. His wings drew back against his body as he pulled away, and Dean wished with everything that he was that he could reach out and _touch_ him. But he had to settle for begging instead, body still refusing to move. “I’m right here, Cas, I’m right here. He didn’t take me away, I’m _right here_. Look at me, Cas. Please, _look at me._ ”

But Cas didn’t seem to hear him, and he certainly didn’t look at him, another sob leaving his throat. And as hard as Dean tried, he _could not move_ , and he felt another stab of panic. What was _this?_ he wondered. Dean couldn't move; Cas couldn't hear him. Was this a dream? No, it seemed too real. A hallucination? No, this didn’t feel like one, and he had plenty of those in his lifetime.

Dean had a chilling thought then.

Was he already _dead?_

He had never given much thought to the afterlife, figuring when he went, he would just have to see what happened. But he never thought it would _this_ : Seeing Cas, alone, mourning his broken, bloodied corpse like it was worth something. Fuck, that was all forms of _wrong_ , and Dean looked around again. Where was Sam? Cas had hinted he was around, but he didn't see his brother. Where was Cas’s family? Why weren't they here with him?!

“Maybe it’s what I deserve,” Cas suddenly whispered, Dean jerking his eyes back to him. The angel’s manic grin was gone now, Cas’s eyes wet and hollow as he looked back at him. “I couldn’t protect you from the monster. I had to leave you behind, _alone_. You needed an angel, Dean, and what was I?”

 _No,_ Dean thought, because that wasn’t true. Cas had been there for him — if it wasn't for him, Dean would have never been able to kill the monster. Didn’t he _remember?_ (Or had that been a hallucination? That Dean wasn’t sure of, but it also didn’t matter. Hallucination or not, Cas had been _there_.) “No, Cas, no, no, no,” he protested, but when Castiel couldn’t hear him, what effect did it have? That didn’t stop him though, and he tried to reach for Cas again. “Cas, you did protect me, I _wasn’t_ alone. You’re an angel, you _are_.”

“Was I never one?” Cas asked, his eyes drifting out to the forest again. “They always said that those of us that left Jannah we’re not _true_ angels. What if they were right, Dean? A true angel would have never been taken like I was. A true angel would have been brave enough to face our cousin, the Leviathan...”

Cas trailed off, Dean cursing and looking for Sam again — where was he? His brother promised to watch out for Cas, because this is what Dean had been afraid of. Of Cas losing himself to his guilt, of being turned back into an emotionless shell of an angel. Dean hadn’t wanted that, but it was happening anyway, wasn’t it? “Cas _, no_ , please.”

Cas still didn't hear him, looking down then at the scars on his chest and at his broken wings, which spread out under his gaze. “Unless it was just me,” he whispered. “They always said I had too much of a human heart. Maybe it's why I broke so easily. Maybe that was why I couldn’t be the angel you needed, Dean.”

“Goddamnit, Cas, no, no!” Dean yelled, and then looked for his brother again. God, where was Sam, to remind Cas that Dick broke people on purpose? And where was Castiel’s family to tell him that he _was_ an angel, and he couldn’t blame himself for what the monster had done to him? “ _Fuck,”_ Dean hissed, but still his body wouldn’t move, and he couldn’t do anything but watch as Cas's eyes filled with tears again.

“I didn’t fight as much as a true angel would, even when… Even when they took me,” he murmured, wings drawing back tight against his back again. His eyes grew distant again, lost in the horrors that were his memories. “I couldn’t stop them from hurting me. From taking my wings. From leaving me in the dark. I hurt them back, but I didn’t _fight_. And when the ghost called to me, I didn’t want to fight at all after that.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed, looking away. This was not a story he wanted to hear again, not when Cas was alone with a rotting corpse that could do nothing for him. Fuck, this was _Hell_ , wasn’t it? Fuck the fire and brimstone stuff he had been told as a kid, Hell was watching Cas suffer like this. And it only grew worse when Cas’s pupils slit once more.

“Then the hunger came, and I forgot everything else. It was all I could think about then,” he murmured, and then his manic grin returned as his eyes shifted back to Dean. “It taught me so much. I was a fledgling coming out of my mother’s wing again, and the island my teacher. What it had to teach me, I learned so well, didn’t I, Dean? My place in the world: What I was, what I was part of. Finding enough food, avoiding my predators, waiting for the monster... All of us: _Meat_. Isn’t that all we are, Dean?”

If Dean could cry, fuck, he would have _cried_. Far worse than watching Cas mourn for him was hearing Dick’s words come out of his mouth again. “No!” he yelled instead, and then looked around again frantically. Why was no one with Cas, telling him this not to think like this? Why weren’t they reassuring him — hell, why were they letting him to talk to a _corpse_ , for fuck’s sake? “Cas, no, no, no, no. You are more than that. Go to Sam, he’ll tell you that. Your family, go to them, they’ll show you. Cas, _please._ ”

Cas didn't do as Dean asked (and why would he, if he couldn't _hear_ him?), but his grin faded, and then his brow creased. He reached up to touch his chest, hand spreading out along his scars. “But it was wrong, wasn’t it?” he murmured as a tear slid down his cheek. “That was only the monster’s world.”

“Yes!” Dean cried desperately, and Cas frowned. It looked like he was struggling with that thought, several more tears falling free. His wings trembled, and then his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I forgot that,"he murmured, and to Dean's relief, his eyes slowly returning to normal. "You made me remember that. You made me remember so many things... Laughter. Jokes. Hamburgers. Cars. Hopes and dreams. Family and _lo_ … No, that’s what you showed me.”

Dean frowned — showed what? — as Cas’s eyes flickered with several emotions that he couldn’t name, before he squeezed them shut. “I have to remember that,” he said through gritted teeth, and then reached up to grip his hair again. “It’s so hard though, Dean. It’s so _quiet_ here. It makes it so difficult to think. The rain helps, the music helps, but...”

 _You’re not here_ , was left unspoken this time, and Dean would have cringed if he could have. No, he was _dead_ , unable to do anything for Cas now. He could only watch as Cas let out the weakest of whimpers, shoulders curling inward as his wings trembled again. And watching Cas fight with his demons hurt worse than anything else had, worse than even his knee being shot. And even though it was pointless, he tried to reach for Cas again, voice growing thick, “Cas, it's okay, it's  _okay_.”

Cas still didn’t hear him, but with one last shudder, he lowered his hand. It slid down his face to his lips, where he traced them slowly with his fingers. It was familiar gesture... and Dean realized he had done that once, touched Cas’s lips like that when he had first seen the angel smile with them. “I promised I wouldn’t forget,” Cas whispered then, and Dean looked back up at him.

He had asked Cas not to forget how to smile, but maybe he should have asked for more. He should have asked Cas to not forget that what the monster had done to him was _wrong,_ and he had no reason to feel guilty about anything. To not forget that what he had done, he had done to survive; to not forget that he was not _just meat_. And to not forget that Dean had asked him: To just _live_.

“Don’t forget, Cas,” he begged, just as Cas had asked him so many times.

He didn’t know if Cas heard him, or if the same power that brought Cas to him when he needed him worked for the angel now too. (Who knew how death actually worked.) But Cas did look at him this time, the promise in his blue eyes as he whispered, “I won’t.”

Dean closed his eyes, relieved. He didn’t know if that was enough; if that would keep Cas from being consumed by his guilt. But he could _hope_ that maybe it was: That the quiet wouldn’t bother Cas anymore, and that words wouldn’t be difficult for him. That he would realize he _was_ an angel, and always had been. That he would just _live_...

“But what about you, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes opened back up, and he looked at Cas, confused. What? What about him? 

Cas's entire body language had changed. He had gone completely still, staring at Dean, the expression on his face hard to read. It was like he had realized something about him again, something _profound,_ and Dean didn’t know what to make of it.

“When I first saw you, I had not eaten in five days,” he murmured, and Dean frowned, not expecting that. Cas tilted his head, eyes growing lost in memory again. “The snow had came early and killed off the berries and grasses. The daemons were running the dogs in preparation for the monster’s hunt, so I could not go down to shore to gather kelp. I had to collect food for the winter, but there was so little of it. And then I saw _you_.”

His pupils slitted at that, and Dean had been a victim of that hungry gaze enough times to know what the angel was thinking about. “There you were, dangling from one of the daemon’s traps. Most humans were killed off by the vampirs within hours, and the lycathropes would pick the bones clean. Humans were nothing more than screams in the night for me... But you were still alive, and I was so _hungry_.”

That was filed under the ‘shit-he-was-better-off-repressing’ box of Dean’s mind, but Cas’s hungry look faded then. The angel’s eyes returned to normal, and then expression grew almost... _fervent_. “But you spoke to me,” he whispered, eyes flickering over Dean’s face again. “You said you could save me.”

Dean remembered that, and remembered it well — Cas had had his blade right at his neck when he had yelled that without thinking. The angel had hesitated, and then whispered so quietly, “ _Save me?”_

“I didn’t even know what that meant. I didn’t know I wanted to be saved,” Cas murmured, brow creasing slightly. “I wasn’t even sure if you were real most of the time: The human who knew my name, who made me _remember_. You were so _bright_ too, Dean; there was nothing else like you on the island. We could all see it. The vampirs were drawn to it, the monster hunted you for it... I would have followed you anywhere because of it."

The angel’s paused then, searching Dean's face, like he was looking for an answer to a question he hadn't asked. “But you couldn’t see it, could you?" he whispered. "You were blinded by your own light.”

 _My what?_ Dean wondered, confused. But at the same time, he thought he knew what Cas meant: What had been inside him, the feelings of conviction, hope and righteousness. What the monster had told him he was: _The spark_. But that was long gone now...

“All you could see was darkness, the hole the monster had carved into you,” Cas continued, and Dean glanced back up at him. That Cas had right: Dean knew that pit inside him very well now. “You didn’t want anyone to see it, but I saw it. That’s when I knew, Dean. You wanted to be saved, too... and you didn’t know it either.”

Dean would have stiffened if he could.

_What?_

He... wanted to be _saved_?

“Is that why you won’t come back, Dean?” Castiel whispered and at that, Dean frowned. Come back? Come back from where? Hell? “Because you don’t know you can be saved too?”

That made Dean pause again, those words going through his mind once. He could be saved...? But no, that didn’t make sense: He didn’t want to be _saved_. He had wanted absolution; redemption. He had come to this island to make up for failing his brother and letting him get abducted in the first place; for breaking Jess’s heart, and tearing his family apart. And that wasn’t even bringing up what Dean had done _here:_ the people he had gotten killed; the way he had treated Cas. He had had to make up for that too, and he _had..._  He had exchanged his life for his family, his friends, his love. He would have done anything for them if it meant getting them back home, because his life didn't matter and never had, he had realized that.

So no, he didn’t want to be _saved_. And even if he _did_ , he would have never _deserved_ it—

“Did you forget, Dean?”

Dean looked back up at Cas again, surprised. Tears had returned to his eyes, Cas shaking his head. “Did you forget, Dean, that it _isn’t_ your fault?”

If Dean could breathe, he might have stopped breathing then. He couldn’t look away though, watching as Cas’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head again, hissing, “You said it was only _him_ , only the monster that did these things to us, that made us think the way we did, and it was not _our_ fault."

There was a fury in his eyes Dean had never seen before, and he was utterly enraptured. “He was the one that took away our humanity; he was the one who made us think we were only meat. But we’re not, we’re _not_. You are _not_ just the hole the monster carved into you. You are _not_ nothing, Dean. You are not just _meat_. And you deserved to be saved too.”

Dean almost, _almost_ denied it; every instinct he had screamed at him to do so. He had told Cas those exact words so long ago, but the difference between them was that Cas had been the actual _victim_. Dean had been just  _selfish,_ breaking Sam’s promise and Jess’s heart because he felt so _guilty,_ and it had nearly gotten everyone killed. No, Cas was wrong, he didn’t deserve _anything_ —

“I-It’s hard to believe, I know,” Cas shot back as if he could hear Dean's argument. “I almost don’t believe it about myself, not after what I did. B-But you said I-I needed to live for something, until I figured out how to do it my own. And I chose you, Dean, I chose you. I’ll live for you, I _will_. I’ll remember that it’s okay that it’s quiet, and it’s okay that my family looks at me like they do. I’ll do it for you, Dean, but I’d rather do it with—”

Cas cut off, Dean seeing the anguish that crossed his face before he squeezed his eyes shut. A full-body shudder went through him, his wings rustling again before he let out a long, slow breath. It seemed to take the fury right out of him, and his eyes were sad when he looked back at Dean, and what he said next made Dean stare at him.

“You have to find something to live for too, Dean,” he murmured. “Until you can figure out how to live for yourself.”

_Promise me, Dean._

Dean thought he felt his heart thump, but he wasn't sure. It was so strange to have his words — Sam's words — given back to him, but he forgot about it a moment later. It was right then that Cas touched his hand, slim fingers sliding along his palm before curling around it. And that might have gotten Dean's heart pounding again, and he suddenly was questioning if he was dreaming or hallucinating or something else.

Because he could _feel it_. He could feel the heat of Cas’s hands, the grip of his fingers, calluses and smooth skin alike. And from his hand, the warmth spread through him, making his skin tingle, his muscles _hurt_. And it didn't make sense, because wasn't he  _dead?_ How could he feel it then? What was going on?

Unless... he was still alive...

That utterly dumbfounded him, and he looked back up at Cas. If he wasn’t dead, what was this? _Was_ this a dream? A hallucination? Was Cas even here? Were they even on the island? What was _this?_

Cas had no answers, staring at their hands, and Dean followed his gaze. He still couldn’t feel anything else but his hand, and he used to that to focus himself before he concentrated. If this was a dream, he could wake up, right? If this was a hallucination, then Cas’s hand was _real._ And if it was...

The world shook a little and then Dean _saw_ —

— _white walls, windows and he could hear tiny, rhythmic beeps. Cas was sitting in a chair beside him, draped in a trenchcoat and a blue sweater_ —

And then he was back in the forest, wind rocking the trees, rain falling all around him. But Dean had seen _it._  Something that looked like… a hospital room?

That made him dizzy just thinking about it, and left him so confused again. He was on the island — he could _see_ it, the trees, the monster on his feet. But he had also seen something else — a room, and Cas was there too. Had that been real? He could still feel Cas’s hand in his, and that _was_ real, wasn’t it? So did that mean he _was_ alive?

And if he was, what did that mean? 

“You could... live for me too, Dean,” Cas whispered as if he heard the question, and Dean looked back up at him. Tears slid down Cas’s cheeks as he met Dean’s gaze, and a weak smile tugged at his lips. “W-We could figure out how to live... together.”

Dean went still at that, staring into the angel’s eyes again.

If he was alive... Could he live for Cas?

That terrified him, like nothing else had before. There had been a peace in dying — his mistakes finally _fixed_ , all the pain he had been in _gone_. To give that certainty up was scary and part of him — the empty, black _hole_ inside him that spoke in the monster’s voice — recoiled viciously at that thought.

They were such stupid things, his desires and wants, it mocked. He had had his absolution too; how dare he want _more?_  He had wanted Cas to get home safe, and he had gotten that, wasn't that _enough?_  After everything he had done, he did not deserve to live anymore than he deserved to be _saved_ —

But he  _wanted_ to be saved too, Cas had said. And maybe he was right, because Dean remembered a kiss that was also a promise, of going home together and just seeing where they went. Of jokes and laughter, hamburgers and cars, of curling up in each other’s arms. It was Cas’s eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled, the meal they shared, the way they had worked so effortlessly together. It was Dean wanting to see what Cas looked like when he smiled freely, when he was happy and healthy. It was things Dean  _wanted,_ and though he was still so hesitant to take it, it was the first time he had been willing to.

It was a full-on war inside him, guilt crashing with desire, the things he wanted versus the things he felt he deserved, dying versus _living_. But it all came to a halt when Cas let out a sigh, and Dean saw the painful acceptance that crossed his face. And then he started to withdraw his hand, and with it, he took his heat and all those promises they had made...

 _No,_ Dean thought. And he forgot everything else, the desire to grab Cas's hand before he pulled away crashing through him like nothing ever before. But he could not  _move,_ and it made Dean frantically look down at his hand again. But if he was alive, he could do that, right? He could _move_ his hand? He could do _anything,_ couldn't he?

He concentrated with everything that he was then, glaring at his hand, willing it to  _move_. And it was so hard, like pushing against a mountain, like trying to climb out of a bottomless pit to the light. And it grew worse when the voices started, trying to pull him back in and drown him forever.

_Oh human, we're animals, we can't be saved._

_Is this all we are, Dean? Everything we work for, everything we fight for… Is this all we are in the end?_

And then there was a voice like no other, making Dean think of a black pit of teeth that was swooping in to swallow him whole.  _You're nothing. You're just meat._

But there was something else in all that too: A memory of a boy who desperately wanted to be saved, and an angel who _had_  saved him, and told him,  _“It’s okay._ ”

It was the hardest battle he had ever fought — everything riding on this one action — and Dean put his entire being into it with one last plea.  _Move_. _  
_

Cas’s breath suddenly hitched, and he looked down at his hand. And then, as they both watched, Dean’s fingers slowly curled around Cas’s, and gripped tight.

 _Oh,_ Dean thought stupidly, while Cas's eyes grew wide, before he looked back at him. And then he leaned forward, beginning to whisper frantically, “Dean? _Dean?_ Dean, wake up. Open your eyes, Dean. _Open your eyes_. _”_

Light suddenly exploded from behind Cas, blinding Dean. He could still hear Cas calling for him, but he also heard another voice, yelling his name. The light broke apart into a dozen circles, lighting up the entire forest around him, bobbing up and down as they grew closer. There were shapes too — shapes that looked like _people,_ silhouetted against the light. They came closer and closer, and then Dean _recognized_ them—

“Open your eyes, Dean,” Cas called again, as someone yelled his name once more. It was Sam, crying and laughing at the same time, dropping beside him and reaching up to clutch his face. Behind him was Andrea and Bobby, a few demons at their backs, and there were others too. Military, police, all of them coming for him.

 _“Dean, Dean,”_ Sam was saying just as Cas asked again for him to wake up. Dean couldn't feel his brother's hands, half-aware that he was still just lying there against the tree and maybe only barely conscious. It was the most surreal realization. “It’s okay now, Dean, it’s okay.”

 _It’s okay_ , Dean thought, as one of the other people came forward, medic’s crosses on their sleeves. And then he heard the beep of a machine, briefly seeing the white room again, where Cas was waiting for him.

He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but there was nothing to fear when he found himself in darkness again. Instead, he turned toward the beacon of light he could see that was Cas's voice in the dark, so much like a boat coming to bring him home.

“Open your eyes, Dean,” Cas whispered at him, and with one last look at the darkness around him, Dean did.


	40. Chapter 40

The world was a mix of whites and multi-colored blurs, the steady _beep!_ the only sound Dean could make out for a moment. But more came to him slowly: Drawn out mutterings and echoing voices, whispers of what sounded like his name. Then, like a lightning bolt across the sky, Sam’s laughter.

The world slid back into place, and Dean saw his family.

His brother was standing beside him, tall as ever, clean-shaven in a loose flannel shirt, and _healthy_ , the gash on the side of head healing nicely. In his arms was Joan, her golden curls bouncing as she whipped around to look at him, her _Unca’ Dean!_ muffled but Dean could still make it out. Next to them was Jess and Mary, Jess’s eyes red as she laughed and called his name; Mary brightened, her mouth parting into a squealing grin that she had only ever given Dean.

For a moment, all Dean could do was stare, just watching his brother with his family, smiling and laughing and _alive_. It was everything he had wanted — Sam and his family, together again — and Dean knew he could have just looked at them forever and been at peace.

But no. There was something missing. It tugged at Dean’s heart before he realized why. No, not something.  _S_ _omeone_ was missing, someone he suddenly, desperately wanted to see then. That someone wasn’t any of the others in the room — not Bobby, who was pulling his cap off his head; not Andrea in the shadows of the corner of the room, staring at him in awe. Not even the array of angels he saw outside the white room window, their tan, red and yellow wings blurring together a little in Dean’s vision. The tug at his heart grew, and his gaze drifted over the room, passing over flowers on a nearby table and the balloons with the _Get Well Soon!_ on them, past windows dotted with raindrops.

 _Where are you?_ he wondered, when a gentle squeeze of his hand made Dean look over.

That was when he found his angel.

It would be days before Dean recovered enough that he could joke with the doctor that she threw out the term “ _medical miracle”_ a lot. It would be weeks before he could convince his nurse that pie was an acceptable alternative to hospital food. There would be happy moments too, when he was able to properly introduce Cas to Jess and the twins, as well as Bobby and myriad of people he called family and friends that came to visit. Vice versa too, when Dean would meet Castiel’s family: Balthazar, Rachel, Anna, the others... and the slightly annoying Gabriel, who kept calling him _Deano!_ When he saw Andrea, Benny and the vampire family again, all looking healthy and happier than he had ever seen them, that was great too. And then there was the outpouring of well-wishes and gifts from people around the world, so many moved by the stories of the island's survivors, wanting to help however they could.

But there would be sad moments too, when Dean would notice Castiel growing tense when it was too quiet, and nightmares plagued them both. There was also when Dean had to look down at what remained of his leg, amputated above the knee; when doctors had to tell them that they all had a long road ahead of them, physically, mentally and emotionally.

In that moment, however, none of that mattered. It was just him and Cas, looking at each other.

Cas was healthier too; Dean could see it in his fuller cheeks, and the way he was starting to fill out a blue sweater, a trenchcoat much like his old one draped over his shoulders. His injured wing was still in a sling (he would later learn Cas had multiple surgeries on it while Dean had been in a coma), and someone had styled his feathered hair too. Dean liked the look; he even would have teased him about that if he could. And then there were Cas’s eyes: Warm and kind, promising everything would be okay and so much more.

It was sight Dean realized he might have never seen again, if it hadn't been for Cas.  _You saved me_ , he told him, the only way he could, and Cas's eyes grew wet.

But tears were okay, _everything_ was okay. And so much waited for them too: Jokes and laughter, hamburgers and cars, _love_ and family. All those things they would have as they figured out how to live _together_.

 _I want to live for you_ , Dean said to him, and tears slid down Cas's cheeks. But his answer was in his growing smile and the way he intertwined their fingers and held on tight.

_I want to live for you too._

Dean smiled right back, before his eyes grew heavy again. He felt his mind began to drift like a boat bobbing in water, anchored by Cas's hand. He closed his eyes, and was happy to fall back asleep to Sam’s whispers of, _Promise me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hunted was written for the 2012 Dean/Cas Big Bang (but never finished it in time). Art was by Daksgirl, which you can see [here](http://daksgirl.livejournal.com/11473.html).
> 
> Special thanks to flutiebear, iamsuchaleo, daksgirl, and so many others. So many helped me by reading first drafts, betaing, and holding my hand and encouraging me to keep me writing. (Especially Flutie, thank you, bb.) I couldn't have done it without all of you.
> 
> And, of course, thanks to my dear readers, who left comments and kudos and basically kept me going when sometimes nothing else could. You have been the best part of writing this story, and words cannot express how much you have all meant to me. From the bottom of my cockles-warmed heart: Thank you for reading _The Hunted._
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://jkateel.tumblr.com/)


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